


The Men They Once Were

by SyfyGuy2



Category: Van Helsing (2004)
Genre: Anthology, Backstory, Dracula - Freeform, Multi, Origin Story, Prequel, Van Helsing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 87,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27872317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyfyGuy2/pseuds/SyfyGuy2
Summary: "I'm the one left standing there when they die and become the men they once were." These are the stories of how those men and women became monsters.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	1. Doctor Frankenstein

**Author's Note:**

> This story is basically an anthology of stories about each of the monster characters in Van Helsing and their origins, with each chapter being about a different character.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fanfiction using the world and characters of Van Helsing (2004), and I do not claim any ownership of said world and characters; they are the property of Universal Studios. This story is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of the film’s canon. I am not financially profiting from the creation and publication of this story; it is for entertainment only and is not part of the official storyline. I am grateful to Stephen Sommers and all associated cast and crew who worked on the film, and to novelisation author Kevin Ryan; for without the film and novel, this story would not exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the first chapter, we’ve got the mad doctor himself. I know Dr. Frankenstein isn’t really a monster in the film, but I was heavily influenced by his expanded backstory in the Van Helsing novelisation, and as a human who fell under Dracula’s control, he counts as someone who lost his humanity in accordance with this story’s theme.

** The Men They Once Were **

****

Chapter 1: Doctor Frankenstein

**Germany, 1885**

Elizabeth laughed, showing her white teeth.

“You are truly frightened of cats because your mother fell over a white cat?” she asked, grinning. Though slightly older than the man with her, Elizabeth had a youthful, smooth-skinned face with prominent cheekbones. Golden hair fell in ringlets to her shoulders. Her eyebrows were slightly thick, but Victor found no flaw.

“Well, Father was seriously worried about her head gash for some hours,” Victor chuckled slightly. He fiddled with his brown suit’s collar. “But I think that’s enough about childhood pets.”

“Understandable,” Elizabeth chuckled, sun-droplets through a tree making her pink dress and face look momentarily fiery. “Let us speak of great figures. Do you particularly identify with any famous men?”

“There are a few among those I read of as a boy,” Victor admitted. He was momentarily silent, thinking. “I particularly admire Plato of Ancient Greece.”

“Why?” Elizabeth asked.

“There are many reasons,” Victor said, looking around at the estate grounds’ trees. “Among them his philosophical contribution to the improvement of a just society, and his successful distinguishment from all his peers.”

“You admire him for standing out,” Elizabeth pointed, smiling.

“Yes,” Victor began, eyes darting like he was suddenly uncertain. “Most men of high standing like my family are content to remain in the same circle forever.”

“You wish to stand out more than your family has?” Elizabeth asked, voice still jovial.

“…That’s a somewhat harsh way of putting it, don’t you think?” Victor said after a pause, smiling back at her.

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said, looking at the ground and smiling. “I meant no offence by it, only complement. Children always want to be distinguished or stand apart in some way.” Another pause passed, Victor looking sideways at her as they walked.

“I’ll admit, it is difficult for a son to make his own mark when his father is Alphonse Frankenstein,” Victor murmured. Their walk took them circling the grounds’ pond. Elizabeth turned her head at the sound of duck’s-quacks, seeing several on the water – she remembered them being chicks in spring.

“The circle of life,” Victor murmured, seeing what Elizabeth had seen. “Creatures are born, then they die, but there’s always life again.”

“Where there’s life, there’s always hope,” Elizabeth murmured.

“But it is because of death that there’s reason to hope for new life,” Victor said. “Without death taking life away, there would be no reason to find hope in life’s restoration.”

“You also studied poetry?” Elizabeth asked, looking back at him.

“I scarcely had time while learning surgery in London,” he chuckled, smiling. “But I do have an interest in the relations between life and death.”

“Is it part of your pursuits relating to the Fellowship of the Physical Sciences?” Elizabeth asked. Victor’s features shifted very-slightly, feeling wary of talking about such a close, personal thing. He turned his head back in the direction they were walking.

“I hope to…” Victor began. “Well, I hope to make significant contributions to the physical sciences, that’ll broaden man’s understanding of the world. The complexity of life you could say is key.” The sound of horses’ hooves drew their attention. A brown coach passed on their left, heading in the opposite direction.

“That is my uncle’s coach,” Elizabeth murmured. “My mother said he would be here in the late afternoon to bring me home.”

“I would be honoured to walk you back to the house,” Victor said.

“There is honestly no need,” Elizabeth said, turning heel while keeping her smiling face on him. “But I would nonetheless be happy to have your company longer.” Victor smiled, turning on the spot with her while the coach ran ahead. They walked back towards the estate.

* * *

The following evening, Victor strode purposefully into the laboratory his parents had allowed him in the manor. The room was wide enough to accommodate several coaches, and most of the floor was bare except for the odd furniture and a main table which cables linked into. Panels and electrical technology lined three walls, producing a humming sound, while the south wall with windows was bare. The wallpaper was peeling off in several places from the room’s formerly-unused state. The fading daylight made the shadows lengthen, despite the wall-mounted lamps’ dim gaslight. Victor removed his jacket and threw it on a chair without looking, leaving him in shirt and waistcoat.

“You’re early as usual,” quipped the curly blonde-haired man, also in waistcoat, adjusting the cables linking to the main table’s metal parts.

“Time is everything,” Victor quipped, shooting Henry a grin, before jogging to the wall-lining equipment.

“The wiring is ready,” Henry said, fiddling with cords and screws on the table’s metal harness, which encased the dead rabbit’s head at the top.

“Excellent!” Victor half-shouted, before jogging diagonally to a panel by another wall, checking meters and adjusting switches. Henry did the same at a panel nearer the table. The machines’ hum began increasing. Victor was grateful for the laboratory advancements available in Germany; he wouldn’t have been able to acquire this technology had he stayed in England, even with the medical profession’s recent advances.

“Have you administered the serums?” Victor asked, flop of hair flying as he turned his head.

“I administered them before you arrived, making sure to use the new bovine testicular formula,” Henry replied, turning from the panel.

“Good,” Victor said, throwing several more switches before running to re-check the instruments’ readings. He murmured under his breath: “Let us hope this new batch might succeed where the others haven’t.” Henry relaxed, hands in his waistcoat’s pockets.

“Calm down, we have everything ready,” he said.

“I don’t want a twenty-first failed experiment on account of a technical mistake,” Victor said without looking or stopping. Victor checked another panel’s switches and indicators, then ran to the table, checking the cable-attachments’ knobs and the straps’ tightness. When Victor was wholly satisfied, by which time the hum had built to a loud sound, Henry looked at a panel’s indicators.

“Victor, the machines are ready!” Henry shouted.

“Then let’s begin!” Victor said, grinning. He sprinted to a panel across the room and pulled a main lever. Electrical currents shot through the cables connecting the equipment, then entered the head-harness, crackling drowning the machines’ hum. The rabbit blazed with blue lightning, stretching and then bending a leg. Victor waited seven seconds, then rushed back to the main lever and reset it. The electrical current cut, the rabbit instantly going still. Running to a surgical table, Victor picked up a monaural stethoscope, then went to the main table. Henry strode forward beside him. Looking the rabbit over, Victor saw smoke was slightly pouring off it, and it was completely still. He placed the stethoscope drum to the rabbit and listened. After several seconds, he began deflating.

“There’s no heartbeat,” he said, removing his head from the stethoscope.

“I am sorry, Victor,” Henry sighed bitterly, putting a hand on Victor’s shoulder. Henry maintained the gesture for several seconds, during which Victor’s crestfallen face remained on the rabbit, then gave a final squeeze and began walking away. Victor moved his hand towards the rabbit’s nose to check for breath. “Check for swelling, if there is any like with the mouse, we are moving in th-”

“ _AH_!” Victor leapt, hand clutched to his chest. Henry looked back.

“Are you alright?” he asked, striding over. “That rabbit must be hot based on-”

“It’s not hot, it _bit me_!” Victor exclaimed, pointing. Henry’s eyes followed Victor’s arm. The rabbit’s lips were moving – jaws opening and closing rapidly, then stopping, then restarting. Henry navigated around Victor to look closer. Squinting, Victor thought the torso was moving slightly.

“Victor, look for a heartbeat again!” Henry exclaimed. Victor re-planted the drum and listened. His eyes slowly widened.

“It’s beating!” Victor exclaimed, looking at Henry. “It’s beating!”

* * *

The surgical theatre’s gallery was full of loudly-talking figures, and the lantern-light on the unoccupied theatre looked foreboding. Victor, looking through the back door’s glass pane, felt slightly nervous.

“There are so many,” he murmured.

“Do not worry about their numbers,” Elizabeth murmured, turning him around to look into her crystal-blue eyes. She always knew how to make the rest of the world melt away so it seemed like she was the only other thing besides him. It amazed Victor how she’d grown her curly hair to waist-length, three months after they’d been married. She put her dainty hands on Victor’s shoulders. “You’ve already discovered what you were after. All you need to do now is talk those gentlemen into understanding why your work is so important.”

“You haven’t met elderly men of medicine,” Victor murmured, sounding like he dreaded them. “They don’t take well to radicalism straight away.”

“You’ve rehearsed for this every night for months, Victor, and we have been re-analysing the experiments from every angle for a year,” Henry said, on Victor and Elizabeth’s opposite side from the door. Victor found it odd to see Henry’s hair slicked back. “Begin with the story about the cat, and explain your discoveries before you reach the point of your presentation.”

“Do not let your anxieties get to your head,” Elizabeth said, leaning in slightly closer. “If you do that, you will only fret more. If you keep calm, you will only do your very best.”

“And what if my very best isn’t good enough?” Victor murmured, wringing his hands slightly. “You know that I don’t excel at speaking.” He could still feel the itching panic of what would happen if the Fellowship didn’t accept him, and he didn’t get the professorship and resources he needed.

“Victor,” Elizabeth said, one hand moving to his jawline. “I have _every belief_ that whatever happens, one way or another you will obtain what you need.” Victor’s larger hand slowly moved to his face, grasping her hand. His confidence almost-immediately increased.

“It still amazes me that you were so accepting of Victor’s experiments when he told you about them, Mrs. Frankenstein,” Henry said teasingly. Elizabeth shot him a slight disapproving glare, then smiled at Victor.

“ _Good evening to you all_ ,” Victor heard the professor on the theatre say, which meant he’d be due to walk on in less than a minute. He looked to the door’s window-pane and breathed out steadily.

“Good luck, my friend,” Henry said. Victor calmly waited until the professor finished the introduction.

“So, let us welcome Dr. Victor Frankenstein!” There was clapping from the gallery. Victor pushed through the door into the theatre. Victor shook the elderly professor’s hand, the professor quickly gave him good luck, then Victor went to the theatre’s centre.

“Right, yes, well…” Victor’s nerves trembled momentarily, looking at the gallery. “Good evening to you all. Before we enter the presentation, I’d like to ask if anyone here has a black and white cat with orange spots that disappeared a week ago. Because black, white and orange hair were found by the humanities building.” There were a few soft chuckles. A pleasant smile spread on Victor’s face, feeling better. “My friend’s mother told me that joke when I was a child. Now, let us begin. Albert, if you would please.” The man above the gallery dimmed the spotlight-lantern, while the man below activated the magic lantern and inserted the first slide – a sepia picture of Victor and Henry holding the revived rabbit a year ago, its jaws half-open.

“During this century, mankind’s knowledge and understanding of the world has advanced massively through the progress made by men of science, despite traditionalist opposition,” Victor began. “Subjects we’d once speculated on through superstition we’ve gained more concrete knowledge of. Luigi Galvani and Alessandro Volta’s contributions concerning causes of movement being one; the Parisian examinations of human physiology, infamous at the time, being another. Through these discoveries, man has increased his manipulation of the world by technology and scientific practices for the good of his kin – a good example is antiseptic surgery that has developed through awareness of micro-organisms, raised by such figures as John Snow in London.”

* * *

Marching down the university building’s steps, case dangling in one hand, Victor was furious, winding around the other people entering and exiting. The falling night snow did nothing to ease him. Elizabeth and Henry were ahead, on the path between the building and the road, faces pinched with sadness.

“I’m very sorry, my friend,” Henry said. Victor eased slightly at being near Elizabeth. He breathed out through his nostrils.

“So am I,” he murmured. “I only had to say I intended to combine dead parts, and the gallery unanimously cried ‘ _blasphemy_.’” He thought speaking of it might relieve some of his anger.

“Let us go home, Victor,” Elizabeth said in a voice Victor couldn’t be mad at. “Henry, would you care to join us?”

“I suppose what happened in the gallery wasn’t the reaction you had been hoping for,” said the figure who’d been walking up to them, making Victor turn and look. “It must have been very hard for you,” the eastern-accented man said, sounding earnest. Victor’s eyes widened slightly, something about the man seeming amazing. He wore a pure-black cloak and gloves, matching his dark hair. His face was slightly worn-looking but handsome. His hair was long and held in a ponytail by a clasp, with several stray strands deliberately framing his face. He interestingly had earrings in either ear. Victor found himself looking at the icy blue eyes the longest.

“I’m sorry, who are you, sir?” Henry asked, looking past Victor. The man glanced at Henry for a split-second.

“Forgive me,” he said, smiling in a way Victor believed. “I am Count Dracula, from Transylvania.” He bowed his head slightly. _Dracula_. Victor thought that name sounded familiar. “I cannot pretend I do not already know your name, Dr. Frankenstein.” He turned to Elizabeth and Henry. “And who are you?”

“Elizabeth Frankenstein, his wife,” Elizabeth said, extending her hand. Count Dracula took it and kissed the back, eyes never leaving Elizabeth’s face.

“Your husband is most fortunate.” He spoke so hoarsely his voice could’ve been a wolf’s snarl.

“Henry Clerval, at your service,” Henry said, briefly bowing his head low. The Count nodded his head slightly.

“As a man who has been looking at the old ways for a long time,” the Count said, turning back to Victor who paid full attention; “I found your arguments about the potential benefits of progress most persuading. Perhaps you are right that embracing progress is the key to building the world’s future.”

“Th-Thank you, Count,” Victor murmured, legs feeling like wet, uncooked meat. “I suppose you didn’t appreciate the idea of using dead parts?”

“On the contrary, I thought bridging the boundaries between life and death are a most appropriate show of science’s capabilities,” the Count said. He smiled thinly, eyes narrowed slightly. “A triumph of science over God, I believe you called it?” Victor was shocked – he could count the number of people who approved of his experiments on ten fingers; none of his family besides his wife were among them.

“Yes- Yes, I did,” Victor murmured.

“It is a shame those other men of science do not share your vision,” the Count murmured. “I would like to speak to you about your experiments and how I might be able to help you.” Victor couldn’t believe his luck. Directly after being denied entrance into the Fellowship of Physical Sciences, a man he hadn’t known beforehand – and an eastern nobleman too – was voicing his full support and saying he wanted to help. It almost seemed too good to be true. Somewhere in his mind, Victor dreaded what might happen if they talked and the Count changed his mind, but Victor’s feeling that indulging in his good fortune would prolong it, outweighed that voice.

“I and my wife live in Munich, but if the journey there is asking more of you than we’re owed, I shall journey back to Ingolstadt in a few days,” Victor said eagerly.

“It is not asking more than you’re owed,” the Count said. “Will visiting two nights from now be appropriate? I’m afraid I never do business with other people during the day.”

“I believe it will be appropriate,” Victor said. “Elizabeth?” He turned to her.

“We would be honoured to have you in our house, Count,” she said softly, eyes slightly lidded. Victor recognised the mannerisms indicating she wasn’t happy, and was slightly puzzled. Henry, who’d been quiet while Victor and the Count talked, smiled.

“It seems we shall see you then, Count,” Victor said, pleased. “Our address is the Frankenstein estate on Dachauer Street.”

“I will remember it,” the Count murmured, almost whispering. “Until then, I shall bid you a good evening.” He nodded at Victor and Henry, bowed his head slightly to Elizabeth, then he turned and left. Victor watched him walk to the road and turn left.

“It seems luck might be on your side yet,” Henry murmured.

“Perhaps so,” Elizabeth agreed, sounding genuinely pleased. “Come, my love. We mustn’t keep poor Uncle Everest waiting too long.”

“Uncle Everest?” Victor murmured absent-mindedly. “Oh. Yes.” He’d forgotten about going home. Elizabeth looked slightly puzzled. He offered his arm, which she looped hers through. When the three were climbing into the carriage that would take them back to Munich overnight, Victor – the second one in after Elizabeth – thought to look down the snowfall-misted road in the direction the Count had gone, wondering why he hadn’t had a carriage nearer the building.

* * *

Two nights later, Victor and Elizabeth were proceeding upstairs, having finished their evening meal. Elizabeth wanted to go to bed, but Victor intended to stay up and await Count Dracula’s arrival. It had been an hour since sunset and he hadn’t arrived. Victor and Elizabeth were three steps past the top of the stairs, when a door-knock made them stop and look, carrying in the front hall which the landing overlooked. Their butler Robert appeared below, proceeding to the front doors and opening them. Count Dracula was standing short of the threshold, wearing the same cloak as in Ingolstadt.

“Count Dracula,” Elizabeth greeted him. “We didn’t think you’d come this late.”

“I said I would be here at night,” the Count replied, looking up at them. “I did not wish to arrive too early and interrupt your meal, nor too late and disturb your sleep.” His voice carried in the house’s front.

“Please, come in,” Victor bade him. The Count stepped over the threshold, unbuttoning his cloak and handing it to Robert. Underneath, he wore a coat and high boots that were equally black.

“I shall be in the bedroom,” Elizabeth said, smiling at Victor.

“Of course, my dear.” She immediately left. Victor proceeded two-steps-at-a-time downstairs.

“Shall we speak in the living area?” Victor asked. The Count nodded. Closer up, Victor could see the Count’s coat bore military embroidery on the front and cuffs. Victor led the way to the door on the Count’s left.

Inside the wide living area, the fire from the early evening was still burning. Entering behind Victor and passing Robert, the Count took a seat in an armchair facing the door, while Victor sat in the opposite chair.

“Might I offer you a drink?” Victor asked.

“No, I’m afraid I never drink,” the Count declined.

“No drinks, Robert,” Victor said. He’d never been one for alcohol, and didn’t want to appear rude by indulging. The servant bowed and left.

“So, shall we discuss business?” the Count asked.

“Of course,” Victor said eagerly, eyes fixed on the Count’s.

“I am given to understand that you would require much expensive equipment and facilities to pursue your experiments’ perfection,” the Count said, half his face looking black-and-white, the other cast in dancing orange shades by the fire. “As a man of a wealthy lineage, I am willing to provide every facility and equipment you need to complete your work, as well as laboratory assistance. All I ask in return is to be your exclusive financial and technological backer in this endeavour, and that you carry out the work exclusively in my home county, where I shall ensure you have the most spacious accommodation there is.” Victor’s eyes widened slightly, unable to believe what he was hearing. Part of him thought this must be some fever dream, it didn’t feel entirely real. The Count not only believed in his work, he was willing to provide Victor whatever he asked – it actually seemed better than membership in the Fellowship of Physical Sciences. Victor barely thought of the possibility the Count might not be able to provide up-to-date scientific equipment, for Victor thought the Count seemed honest and wouldn’t deceive him. But the thought of how Elizabeth would feel forced its way to Victor’s consciousness, like a suffocating creature breaking free of its confines.

“Your offer is most generous, Count,” Victor said, unable to get a _but_ out afterwards. Count Dracula’s eyes narrowed slightly. When a short time – Victor didn’t know how much in his slightly-off state of mind – passed, the Count spoke for him.

“Do you have concerns?” he asked, shadowy voice calm.

“I’m not sure how my wife would feel about moving to another country,” Victor said. The Count smiled.

“Forgive me, I should have considered this from the beginning,” the Count said. “Rest assured, the accommodation you will have is very large and very comfortable – a castle, in fact – and a complete staff will come with it. I will ensure the staff are people who can cater to your wife’s every possible need from sickness to, if I may address sensitive matters, the possibility of child-bearing.” Victor’s brows furrowed as he thought, which was currently somewhat difficult.

“I should speak with my wife about this,” he said.

“Of course, but do not take too long, my friend,” the Count said, words sinking into Victor’s mind.

“I will only go if my wife says yes, though I hope she does,” Victor said, unsure if he meant the first part.

“I see,” the Count murmured, smiling again. Removing a small brown envelope, he said: “I shall leave my postal address with you for you to contact me by.” He placed it on the lamp-table beside him. “Until then, I shall take my leave, and bid you a good evening.” The Count began to rise.

“Allow me to escort you out,” Victor said, rising after him. The Count nodded in gratitude and walked out the door, Victor behind him.

* * *

“You are considering this?” Elizabeth asked, somewhat shocked.

“He has offered me whatever I need to fulfil my work,” Victor said, standing five feet away on the lamp-lit bedroom’s opposite side.

“But Victor, can he truly provide what you need on the far side of Europe?” Elizabeth argued. “You said you would need some of the most recent technology for your work – how is anyone to know if you can get that in the Count’s land?”

“He is an honest man, I am sure of it,” Victor replied.

“Honest?” She gaped, astounded. “Victor, you have just met him.” That made some unknown anger trigger in Victor’s mind.

“He is offering me all the help I can ask for, where everyone who can provide that has turned me down!” Victor snapped, raising his voice slightly. Elizabeth went silent. Victor sighed slightly, putting a hand to his eyes, suddenly feeling awful.

“Elizabeth, I fear if I turn this offer down,” he said, walking across the gap and putting his hands on either of Elizabeth’s arms, “I may be turning down my best and only chance at completing my work.” Her eyes met his. She looked beautiful in her virgin-white nightdress. “I am also wary of moving to a land I do not know. Do you remember when we took our marriage vows, we swore to follow each other in sickness and in health? I have never asked you to follow me in my work before because I did not need to – you supported me wholly because you believed in me. Please, Elizabeth, follow me when I ask you to this once.” A pause followed. Victor saw the indecisiveness in Elizabeth’s eyes. After a while, she looked at the floor and sighed.

“Alright, Victor, I will go with you,” she said. A smile started spreading on Victor’s face, then halted. She didn’t look entirely happy with the decision, and part of Victor felt horrid for doing this to her.

“Who knows, we may actually enjoy being in Transylvania,” Victor said softly.

* * *

The ebony-black coach wound around the valley to reach the foreboding castle. As they approached along a dirt road through the mountain woods, Victor leaned out of the carriage’s side window, staring up. The castle’s towers, rising above the battlements, looked from a couple miles away to be incredibly high, possessing spires which almost grazed the sky. Most had conical roofs, but the tallest was cuboid with crown-like spires on each corner. Victor couldn’t see any decay on the castle. It reminded Victor of a cathedral, despite its grey walls.

“Elizabeth, you should see this,” Victor murmured quietly, sliding back into the coach. Elizabeth leaned out of her side’s window for a few seconds before slinking back in.

“It is very spacious-looking,” she murmured, slightly awestruck. Victor had hoped her spirits would improve, but it had remained clear she wasn’t in an entirely-good mood during the train journey to the Carpathians and their subsequent ride by a private coach. The coach reached gates which two men in black pulled open, revealing a courtyard which ended at the front of one of the castle’s lower-buildings. The coach trundled straight to the building and stopped. Victor pushed open the doors and exited, then put either hand on Elizabeth’s waist and helped her out. Victor and the coachman began removing the luggage, while Elizabeth looked at the castle.

After all their luggage was dismounted, Victor pushed the wooden double-doors open. Inside was a stone hall which twenty people could walk abreast and a two-story house could fit inside. Had Victor known the Count were going to give him and Elizabeth such a massive residence, he would’ve been compelled to insist they had no need of such space. The thought of him and Elizabeth living here was somewhat dizzying. Victor looked around for a few seconds before noticing the staff assembly facing them. He felt slightly ashamed for his display of apparent rudeness. There were twenty staff, mostly male and female servants including a deformed-looking man, a physician, five maids and three cooks.

“Hello,” Victor said slightly-nervously, unsure if there was a custom way to greet Transylvanian staff. A servant at the front-and-centre – a tall, willowy woman with near skin-tight clothing, dark hair in a tight bun – stepped forward, hands formally clasped at her waistline’s front-centre. Several seconds passed before she was stood in front of the Frankensteins, enabling them to see her beady-eyed, pointed face.

“Greetings,” she said in a low, somewhat deep though still feminine voice. “I am Frau Lugosa, the housekeeper. Count Dracula apologises that he could not be here to welcome you to your new dwellings, and sends reassurances that he shall visit to ensure you have a comfortable home stay.”

“I should thank him myself when I see him,” Victor said.

“I will see to it that it is remembered,” Frau Lugosa said. “Dr. Frankenstein, I believe you should wish to meet your primary laboratory assistant. _Igor_!” She barked so sharply and fiercely, Victor almost jumped. The deformed man stepped forward, groaning and wheezing. Looking more closely, Victor saw he had a hunched posture, pasty-white face with sunken eyes, and stringy reddish hair somewhat clinging to his head. He wore a black-and-white uniform like the other manservants, and fingerless gloves.

“At your service, Dr. Frankenstein,” he groaned slowly, voice hoarse and wheezy. He bowed his head. “And yours, Mrs. Frankenstein.” He grinned horribly, showing his rotten yellow teeth. Victor wondered what may be wrong with the man’s hunched back. “Perhaps you would like to see the space that will serve as the laboratory?” Igor asked Victor.

“If the room does not meet your needs, we will immediately find another in the castle,” Mrs. Lugosa said.

“Yes, I would most certainly like to see it,” Victor said eagerly. “But first, I would like some help bringing mine and my wife’s luggage in and showing us to our rooms.” He looked at Elizabeth, who smiled sweetly at Mrs. Lugosa.

“Of course, Doctor,” Mrs. Lugosa said, while Igor shuffled out the front doors. “ _Bring in the doctor’s and his wife’s belongings_!” she roared with equal ferocity, whipping her head. Four manservants came forward. While they walked past, Frau said: “Igor and the others shall bring your belongings up to your bedchambers quickly. If you would both follow me.” Turning, she marched into the castle, straight-backed. Victor and Elizabeth shared a look, then followed her.

Mrs. Lugosa took them to Victor’s room first, opening the door for them to look in. The room wasn’t as wide as their Munich bedroom, but the ceiling was nearly fifteen feet high. The room possessed a four-poster bed with ornately-carved pillars, and was also decorated with ornate carpets and furniture.

“As you can see, Doctor, your bedchamber possesses a vast bed should you and your wife wish to share this room,” Mrs. Lugosa said. “The bed’s sheets are changed and tidied daily to ensure comfort for the doctor every night.” Mrs. Lugosa promptly walked to the next door along, Victor and Elizabeth following.

“This, Mrs. Frankenstein, is your room,” Mrs. Lugosa said, opening the door. Looking inside, Elizabeth saw it was much like Victor’s room, except the bed was a non-poster bed. The desks and furniture were slightly simpler, dominated by woman’s products. “It is slightly closer to the inward-facing part of the tower, providing it protection from cold winds which may cause you discomfort in the winter.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Lugosa, we shall be able to settle ourselves in in due course,” Victor said. Mrs. Lugosa nodded her head and walked away, straight-backed. Victor smiled hopefully at Elizabeth.

“What do you think?” he asked her.

“I think I might enjoy Transylvania yet,” Elizabeth said, slowly approaching Victor’s front, clasping her hands behind the back of his neck. Grinning, Victor lifted her up by the waist and twirled her around, making her cry out jovially. Still twirling, Victor guided them waltz-like through the open door.

* * *

The rat opened its jaws, pupils contracting under the tiny head-harness. Victor watched the creature on the diagonal table, amazed. Its jaws slowly opened wider, a front leg moved forward, the raw tip where its right hind leg had been pivoted. Victor thought the glass cube in the rat’s chest pulsed rhythmically with electric light, like a heartbeat.

“Igor, cut off the electricity flow!” Victor called loudly.

“Yes, Doctor!” the hunchbacked servant, dressed in a thick shirt and ragged apron, called back from the wooden platform above the floor. He rushed down the platforms’ steps to deactivate the switches, Victor sprinting across the laboratory to do the same. The hum almost-completely died down. Victor sprinted back to the rat, eyes going wide while Igor stumbled forward behind him. The rat was still moving its jaws and limbs, the glass in its chest still pulsing. Victor and Igor watched it continue moving five, ten, fifteen seconds.

“It lives longer than the last rat,” Victor murmured, eyes wide with awe. “And the light. This new battery-” He pointed to the glass in the heart “-is conserving and distributing electricity for longer.” Victor wholly turned to grin at Igor. He wished Henry could see this and not simply read of it in letters, but Igor was close to company enough. “Your suggestion we focus more on electricity than chemicals was a very good one.” He looked back at the rat. “Now let us see how long this specimen lasts for.” Over fifteen minutes, the rat’s movements grew weaker and slower, the light in its glass-battery dimming. The battery still had some light when the rat had been completely still for five minutes.

“Twenty minutes,” Victor murmured, brows slightly furrowed. “Reactivate the electric flow, let’s see what happens.” Igor stumbled to reactivate the machinery, Victor rushing to help seconds behind. Two minutes later, the laboratory hummed again. The rat’s body went rigid, then froze, eye remaining blank. The laboratory continued humming for five seconds.

“Igor, turn it off!” Victor yelled before rushing again. When the hum cut, the rat went limp, jaws moving and eye slightly contracting. Running back to the table, Victor stared, mouth slowly forming a grin.

“The chemicals’ effects are lingering longer…” Victor murmured in realisation.

“Does it work, Doctor?” Igor asked.

“Yes!” Victor yelled, turning. “Igor, the chemicals are working! Bring two more rats down, let us see if the battery can reanimate them as well!” Igor nodded. He’d taken two steps when the wooden door opened with a creak, making him look. Elizabeth entered, dressed in an artistic form of dress – golden material, orange band around the waist, pattern silk on the neckline and cuffs. She was smiling almost-secretly, and Victor swore her flesh looked pinker.

“Victor, Igor.” She looked at them both. “Am I interrupting?” she asked slightly-jokingly.

“Well, the work might be able to wait,” Victor murmured, curious.

“I am truly sorry to interrupt, my love, but I have important news I think you would like to hear,” she said. Victor detected the tonal undercurrents of something shocking and jubilant. “I didn’t want it to wait when I found out.” Victor’s eyebrows furrowed, something he couldn’t quite feel pushing him to walk to his wife and hear her.

“Of course,” Victor said, puzzled. “Igor, have the rats ready!” Igor turned and walked towards the door.

“What is it?” Victor asked as Igor slammed the door. He clutched Elizabeth’s hand.

“It is wonderful,” Elizabeth murmured, voice nearly shaky. He thought her smile grew brighter. “I’m with child.” Victor felt very strange, like what he’d just learned couldn’t take effect for several minutes. Looking at Elizabeth’s un-swollen belly, he raised a hand and placed it there almost without thinking. She placed porcelain-like hands over his.

“Are you sure?” Victor murmured, eyes meeting her crystal eyes. Elizabeth nodded, smiling beautifully.

“The physician has examined me and confirmed I am pregnant without doubt.” Victor looked dumbly, his work temporarily pushed to second-priority place in his mind. He felt like a gentle but disjoining earthquake had rippled through his existence. After some time, Elizabeth put a hand to Victor’s jaw, making him look at her face. Again without his mind working, Victor leaned forward and kissed Elizabeth’s lips, caressing her like she were the most fragile thing in the world. Elizabeth returned his tender movements.

* * *

Elizabeth marched down Castle Frankenstein’s stone halls, feeling hurt and somewhat stormy inside. Turning at the corridor’s narrow end to the laboratory door, the swollen-bellied woman knocked, and didn’t wait for an answer before pushing it open. Victor had stopped answering door-knocks some time ago. The hall she stepped into was filled with machines and electrical equipment – taking up close to half the space – which hummed and crackled with a cacophony of noises; compared to how the hall had been when she’d announced her pregnancy six months ago. One machine was two storeys tall. Igor was among the platforms, while Victor in white coat had his back to the door at an angle, injecting a pink animal corpse using hypodermic needles.

“Victor?” Elizabeth tried calling over the noise. She gave Victor three seconds before walking towards him. “Victor.” He practically jumped in surprise, turning. Elizabeth saw his eyes had become dark-rimmed since she’d last seen him a day and two nights ago.

“Elizabeth!” Victor said, seeming genuinely happy.

“My love, I’d like to speak to you,” she said somewhat sorrowfully.

“Oh,” Victor said, eyes seemingly wild. “Perhaps this may wait, just twenty minutes?” He began skipping over cables in the opposite direction to adjust more levers and fit rods. “I’m attempting to revive multiple creatures at the same time with one.” Elizabeth saw five pigs strapped to the table. One wore a head harness which cables extended out of, and uniquely had metal strips bolted into its flesh in places. Cables linked from this pig’s flesh into the others’. Shaking off her initial surprise, Elizabeth looked at Victor, who had his back to her again as though she’d left already. Dull-red anger flared inside her.

“My love, this cannot wait, I shall speak to you immediately or not at all!” she said loudly. Victor turned, full attention on her. Sighing, she prepared to word what she had to say without sounding unreasonable. “My love, I did not see you at breakfast, dinner or supper yesterday.”

“Yesterday? Has night already passed?” Victor looked at the grey-white sky in the hall window. “I thought I told Leonte to say I may be late.”

“He told me, and you did not turn up at all,” Elizabeth said, brows creasing slightly. “Please tell me you have consumed something since the day before.”

“Of course,” Victor said, like nothing was wrong. “The servants brought mine and Igor’s food directly to the laboratory. Did they not tell you that?”

“They did not,” Elizabeth said, voice slightly icy. The staff – Mrs. Lugosa, the maids, the servants and the physician - hadn’t grown on her in the nine months she and Victor had lived here. Their vagueness when she’d asked about their past to get to know them had distanced her, as had their constant icy vigilance of being formal when they talked. “What of sleep? I asked every servant who might have been in the halls at dawn and dusk, and they explicitly said they did not see you enter or leave your room.”

“Igor and I have been taking turns sleeping here,” Victor said. “I finished my few hours’ rest not long ago.” Elizabeth looked disturbed for a moment. A rustling sound and clatter made them both look up – Igor had stumbled on the platform above them, carrying an electric insulator nearly as tall as him.

“Igor, are you alright?” Victor called, concerned.

“Yes, Doctor,” Igor said.

“One moment!” Victor sprinted away from Elizabeth, hurriedly climbing the wooden steps into the platforms. He took the insulator and ran to its place, then looked to make sure Igor had gotten up without trouble before descending.

“Victor, you mustn’t strain yourself with your work like this,” Elizabeth said as Victor came down, sounding almost exasperated. He looked at her from the steps’ bottom, and she thought outrage pinched his features.

“Elizabeth, this is my _life’s work_ ,” Victor murmured, striding forward. Reaching her, he clasped both her hands, and locked his pleading eyes with hers, making Elizabeth almost wonder if she were right to cause this fuss.

“And what of our child?” she asked, pulling one hand away and putting it on her belly. “Is that not your life’s work as well?” Victor looked, mouth hanging slightly like he didn’t know what to say. Slightly outraged, Elizabeth pressed: “It will be born within two more months, Victor, and what shall happen then?” Victor’s jaw tightened.

“I shall finish the most major part of my work in time for the birth,” he said, voice slightly curt with anger. “As for my health, I am getting food and sleep to ensure my mind functions optimally.” Elizabeth could’ve sighed; Victor always had to respond this way when he felt angry but didn’t want to explode. “If that is all, Elizabeth, you must leave me and Igor to continue the work.” He turned and began walking away. Elizabeth grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“Victor, I am missing you,” she said solemnly, bearing her feelings. “I do not want to see you immerse yourself in your work if it means you will drown.”

“I will _not_ drown,” Victor said icily, looking back at her for just a moment. Then he said without looking: “Besides… You also didn’t want to move to Transylvania, yet here we are regardless.” Elizabeth all but flinched back, appalled.

“Now if that is all, you should leave,” Victor said. “The Count will be here in two days, and I wish to perform as much as I can before then.” Gently but quickly, he slid his arm out of her grasp and walked towards the machinery. Elizabeth stared after him a moment. Then she glowered, turned heel and walked to the laboratory exit.

* * *

As always, Count Dracula arrived after sunset. A manservant swung the laboratory door open, and the Count turned into the laboratory.

“Count!” Victor, spinning round from his work, exclaimed jovially. He’d barely notice the servants and Elizabeth entering and exiting, but his mind was somehow _told_ when the Count was present.

“Victor, it is good to see you,” the Count said softly, smiling. He unbuttoned his cloak and handed it to the manservant. Victor approached, and he and the Count shook hands like they were old friends, which Victor thought they were as good as. A wheeze made the Count’s eyes track upwards. Following, Victor saw Igor look down from the platforms before continuing along. He seemed slightly intimidated. Looking back at the Count, Victor saw his face was cool before he turned to the manservant.

“See to it that Igor receives his medicine,” the Count said, powerful voice beating the machinery’s hum. The servant bowed his head, while Igor half-hurried down to the floor. Victor didn’t care much for the Count giving orders. The staff were the Count’s, and this was technically the Count’s castle, so Victor thought he held ultimate authority.

“Now, my friend, let us discuss how your work fares,” the Count said, smiling widely.

“Yes, indeed,” Victor said. He all but hopped to the nearby operating table, flanked by two other tables. The Count stalked forward behind Victor. Each table had a dead pig upon it, held down by straps – the main table’s pig had metal hoops in place of knees, a metal breastplate with cables bolted into its chest, and two cables extending from its sides to pile in disconnected hoops on the floor. “The pneuma as I’ve named it, has progressed very well. I’ve developed two formulae, but the second requires the first formula to work. The pig with the metal parts-” Victor gestured “-has been given the first formula, while the others have been given the second formula.”

“Explain,” the Count said coolly, gaze fixing Victor.

“The first formula preserves and repairs dead tissue, but I needed something else to capture the right electrical charge, and help the chemicals to reproduce it indefinitely,” Victor said quickly. “Hence, adding machine parts to the cadavers. Perhaps a demonstration?” Victor looked at the Count. He didn’t need to hear a reply, darting across the lab to switch levers, place rods and adjust other switches. Victor took a long couple minutes without Igor, during which the Count looked at the pigs, before he pulled the final switch. Bright-blue electrical arcs surged through the cables, triggering sparks from consoles they passed through, before entering the part-metal pig. Blue lightning blazed over it momentarily, then vanished. A split-second later, the pig’s eyes shot open and it began screeching, unable to move with straps restraining its legs and torso. The Count’s eyes were wide, tiniest hints a smile at his mouth’s corners.

“Bear in mind, this is an improper simulation – this pig will be dead again within an hour,” Victor warned.

“What of reviving corpses without machine-parts?” the Count asked, turning to Victor.

“I’ve already done that,” Victor said, rushing forward. He picked up the cables’ needle-tipped ends, inserting either one into the other pigs. Then he rushed to readjust a few switches and re-pull the final switch. Lightning rushed into the revived pig, which squealed much harder for several seconds. The lightning-arcs turned white, then rushed through the cables into the other two pigs. Blue lightning blazed over them momentarily, then their eyes opened and they began squealing. The Count stared at both, face calm but eyes slightly wide.

“These pigs will also die,” Victor said. “The second formula can restart the body and let it continue functioning without machines, but it also needs the electrical charge to be precisely right, or the chemicals alter too rapidly.”

* * *

“Can you rectify this?” Elizabeth heard Count Dracula ask darkly, spying from the spiral stone steps. Watching from the wall’s curve, nearly out of sight, Elizabeth saw the Count, front facing her but eyes on the pig-occupied tables, while Victor’s back was to her.

“I believe I can,” Victor said, turning towards the steps. Elizabeth immediately moved behind the curve, putting a hand on her swollen belly, but thought Victor’s eyes saw her in the split-second before the wall was between them. At the pause that followed, she was concerned he’d caught her eavesdropping, before he talked again. “I have been examining every experiment’s results, and I believe that if more than enough electricity flows into an automaton of _perfect_ mass and shape, with the correct machine-modifications to filter the excess charge and channel the used charge, the perfect dosage will result.”

”How sure are you of this?” the Count asked. Elizabeth, who didn’t dare look again lest she be caught with certainty, didn’t like his slightly-dark tone.

“Very confident,” Victor said, certain-sounding.

“What will you need to construct this automaton?” the Count asked, voice dark as a graveyard on a misty morning.

“It’ll need to be constructed,” Victor said, sounding troubled. “And large – larger than a man. I can’t bring it to life with only the generators, it’ll need a greater charge to reach the ideal dosage. I need…” He paused, in the way Elizabeth recognised as occurring when a sudden idea struck him. “ _Lightning_. Yes, I need lightning!”

“How will you construct this automaton?” the Count asked. A pause followed.

“That is a problem I haven’t yet solved,” Victor murmured gravely. “I cannot use animal parts, I’ll need-”

“Men?” the Count’s voice finished, sounding nonchalant.

“Yes… Yes, men.” Elizabeth thought Victor didn’t sound like he were wholly awake.

“You cannot acquire legal corpses here, as I understand you can in your own country,” the Count murmured. Elizabeth listened intently. “But, I am given to understand great men of science worked around such unjust laws before they were amended.” Elizabeth felt slightly sick, not sure she wanted to know what the Count was suggesting.

“Y-Yes, that’s true, Count,” Victor murmured, dazed.

“The village below this castle has a cemetery,” the Count murmured, voice quiet and husky. “I think you should see where it is clearly if you look with that telescope.” Elizabeth turned heel and marched up the steps, insides coiling like snakes, barely remembering to keep her steps quiet.

* * *

Count Dracula stalked into the spiral steps’ archway, leaving Victor while his suggestive words wormed into the man’s mind. Though the woman tried to sound silent, it was pathetic how easily Dracula could hear her heels _clap_ - _clap-clap_. Her heartbeat’s quickening when he’d spoken about the cemetery told him her reaction to what he’d said. Thinking of Mrs. Frankenstein, Dracula found it almost funny how difficult it was for him to penetrate the part of Victor’s mind he saved for her. Its barriers were gelatinous and thick, while every other wall in Victor’s mind had been like paper. For all his gifts, Victor Frankenstein had the mental strength of rotted wood. Dracula thought Mrs. Frankenstein might be an obstacle – he knew what power a man’s feelings for a woman could have over a man, and he was concerned about just how much sway she could have over Victor if Victor reserved such powerful barriers for her.

Looking up the spiral stairway to the curve of the stone wall, Dracula smiled in a way that would’ve seemed very affable or as chilling as the Carpathians in winter.

* * *

Victor was present for breakfast the following morning, but said before leaving he didn’t expect to be present for dinner. Elizabeth ate alone during dinner and supper. She’d spent most of the day thinking over what she’d heard Count Dracula suggest Victor do, reconsidering whether or not she could let it happen. Victor’s experiments with legal dead parts were already questioned, could using illegal dead parts in a wild Eastern European land be so questionable? Elizabeth thought first and foremost about the child, but that answered few of her questions. Elizabeth had first remembered Victor telling her about public outcry against the first Parisian autopsies; but those bodies hadn’t been obtained by grave robbery. Again a poisonous part of her mind thought, would it matter in a wild foreign land?

 _Yes, it would_ , she thought firmly when her supper was nearly finished. Grave robbing was a crime anywhere in the world. She also thought about what the villagers would do – she and Victor hadn’t interacted with them at all because the staff had warned they were deathly-superstitious and feared outsiders. Victor might have been imprisoned or lynched if he’d grave-robbed in the west for his experiments, never mind in these parts which were so mysterious. That very last thought made Elizabeth think of the staff less favourably, for they’d ensured she and Victor were cut off from the locals and other people. Her mind set, Elizabeth finished her meal, and left the crockery on the vast dining hall’s table, striding with hands clasped in front of her swollen belly out of the hall. She walked straight towards the laboratory, hoping Victor was there and not already following the Count’s suggestion – less than an hour had passed since sunset. She considered what she’d say to him. If she had to, she’d threaten to leave without telling Victor where she and their unborn child were going. A third of the way to the laboratory, a building stomach cramp made Elizabeth press a hand above her belly. Halfway, she cried out slightly with each footstep. Two thirds of the way, she fell to her knees, doubling over as much as she’d risk with her baby. A long, agonised howl tore from her throat. She stayed on the floor for three minutes before she heard people rushing towards her. Two manservants came down the corridor, one lifting her bridal-style in strong arms. They promptly marched down the way she’d come, faces stoic.

“ _Tell my husband_ …” she barely heard her words. Summoning a burst of strength, Elizabeth briefly grabbed the other servant’s arm, making him look at her.

“Tell… _my husband_!” she growled through her teeth, glaring fiercely. The servant looked back a moment, then nodded his head and went back towards the laboratory.

The other servant carried Elizabeth to her chamber. She was disturbed to see not only the physician by the door – a hook-nosed man in shirt and waistcoat, with bright-grey hair that thinned on the top of his head – but Mrs. Lugosa and six maids and manservants. She looked at them for a second, before screwing her eyes and screaming, feeling like her stomach were filled with fire. No-one said anything, the manservant carrying Elizabeth in and placing her on the bed, while the other staff entered behind him. Elizabeth groaned as another cramp hit. She knew women screamed when giving birth, but this pain was different – it was like a match had been lit inside her stomach and was slowly burning its inside walls black.

“ _Th-The baby_ …” Was all she could gasp desperately before suffering yet another cramp. When she opened her eyes, she saw the staff were forming a circle around her. The physician was crouched in the direction her feet were facing, Mrs. Lugosa towering behind him, beady-eyed face cold. Elizabeth felt disturbed and angry, seeing the others staring the same way. She groaned against another cramp.

“ _SAVE MY BABY_!” she screeched with sudden strength.

“It seems you have suffered a bout of food poisoning, Mrs. Frankenstein,” Mrs. Lugosa said, tone completely neutral. Forcing her eyes open, Elizabeth looked at her cold face. “I am sorry to say, there is nothing that can be done.” Elizabeth stared for one second. A split-second before she would’ve screamed as loudly as she could, hoping Victor might hear wherever he was, a servant on her right clamped a firm hand over her mouth. The other servants began grabbing Elizabeth’s limbs and spreading her out like they intended to dismember her. She struggled furiously, screamed muffled noises of pain and fury against the hand, but the servants’ grips were iron. In a few seconds, she could only move her chest, held down in a starfish-like pose. Groaning, she looked during a brief reprieve from the pain and saw the physician inspecting a hypodermic needle filled with dark liquid.

“This will not hurt for long,” Mrs. Lugosa purred, the tiniest, coldest smile forming by her lips’ corners. The physician leaned forward, disappearing from Elizabeth’s sight past the hand on her mouth. She tripled her struggles, not feeling the needle prick her ankle.

* * *

“What is happening?!” Victor rushed down the corridor to the closed door, the two manservants turning their heads. The nearest walked into the corridor, raising a hand to stop him.

“Mrs. Frankenstein collapsed in pain five minutes ago, Doctor,” he explained, voice gentle and calm. “We do not yet know if she has gone into labour or is ailed.”

“I must see her,” Victor said, already moving forward, before the servant stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“The physician is doing all he can for her, but requires absolute privacy if he is to save her and the child,” the servant said quickly and still-gently.

“But I should-”

“He needs absolute privacy,” the servant repeated emphatically. Victor paused a moment. Then he reluctantly stepped back, listening for any sound from the room. He restlessly leaned against the wall with his arm for five minutes, before the door opened and a maid leaned out. She looked at Victor and marched towards him immediately. Victor instantly grew fearful at the lack of noise.

“Is my wife well?” Victor asked, removing his forearm from the wall. “What of the child?”

“I am very sorry to say, Doctor, your wife and the child have died,” the maid said solemnly. Over the course of twenty seconds, Victor’s world – the one shut out of his laboratory which he hadn’t known he’d had – rippled like disturbed water, then crumbled. Victor was barely aware of his legs guiding him back to the wall, or his back sliding down it until he was sitting on the floor. Time seemed to lose meaning while he sat there.

* * *

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the laboratory as Victor near-frantically toiled with the panel’s switches.

“Igor!” he shouted. “Are the generators ready?”

“Yes, Doctor!” shouted the deformed man over the electric crackle and the machines’ whirring, climbing the steps to the upper-platforms.

“Good…” Victor barely heard himself say before sprinting across the laboratory, checking over mechanical instruments near the window. Another lightning-flash made Victor look at the window, seeing the sky light up. The lightning strike would be upon them any moment. They needed to be ready, the work needed the lightning. Yes, the work had to be completed tonight. Victor mentally noted their fortune that the lightning strike had come tonight, just as his only friend the Count had said it would. Victor thought it was like his friend had willed the storm to come. _Could a man’s, or a friend’s will really do that?_ Wondered part of Victor’s mind that his rationality didn’t reach. He was vaguely aware the work’s urgency had driven him for some days and nights, he wasn’t sure how many had passed since he’d last eaten or drunk. He hadn’t even removed the bloody apron under his coat since before sunset.

Speaking of which, Victor immediately thought to ensure the automaton he’d assembled was prepared. He ran across the laboratory, past the two-storey main machine, to the body table. Looking at what lay on it, Victor’s heart twisted slightly, in addition to the welcome scratching feeling that occurred on his heart’s internal walls. Encased by metal bands, the automaton was shaped like a man but unusually tall. Its legs in black pants ended in large, cuboid metal boots. Victor had added a hydraulic support to the right leg, as the two legs had come from mismatching corpses – none of the other bodies’ legs and groins had had the right properties for both legs to be used. Above the waist, the body was clad in cloth bandages in case the surgical scars didn’t fully close. Victor had cut holes in the cloth on the creature’s face, so its closed eyes were visible. Looking at those eyes, soon to open, Victor’s concern for the work paused. He wondered what his creation’s first reaction would be. He’d constructed the creature’s brain from three corpses’ to ensure he created a new person and didn’t resurrect an old. It hadn’t been necessary, but Victor had _needed_ it. Would his creation rage, would it cry, would it weep like a newborn? _Like his other creation might have_.

Suddenly, Victor again couldn’t repress the pain. He’d held it down for the work, partly helped by the Count’s benevolent words, but that had seemed to freeze the healing process. Had it truly been three months since he’d lost Elizabeth and their child? It felt like it had been a week or a century at once. Victor’s whole other life before and outside of the work had collapsed with them. His parents hadn’t mattered anymore, Henry – who he hadn’t written to since – hadn’t mattered anymore. The staff, who were kindly enough when he saw them, had gently urged his work on, as had the Count. He’d focused on the work, it was all he had left. The only piece of the outside life Victor retained was the desire for a future, the kind of future that would live beyond his death. It had been partly crushed when Elizabeth had died, and Victor now had only one future child that could fill it, the one he would give life to tonight. Briefly detaching himself from the work, ignoring the laboratory’s noise, Victor leaned over his creation’s face. He raised a hand to almost touch the side of its head, avoiding the head-harness’s metal parts.

“You… are the only child… I will ever have,” he whispered so quietly no-one else would’ve heard, voice nearly breaking. Then Victor straightened and checked the head-harness’s wires, the moment over. After checking the wires were tightly-screwed, he looked over the cables on the table’s vertical pillar-poles; while mentally going over every essential relating to the automaton. He’d administered the pneuma, he’d double-checked the creature’s parts had been properly stitched, he and Igor had checked the pylons on the roof, and he was now checking the connections. Victor finished checking just in time, as another lightning-flash occurred.

“The lightning has struck!” Igor yelled, an electrical hum filling the laboratory. Victor rushed to the main machine, adjusting two switches before forcing the main switch forward. Two seconds later, a blue electrical ball surged downwards through the laboratory’s cables and metal girders, exploding into a shower of sparks over the operating table. Electrical crackling filled Victor’s ears. He sprinted back to the table, barely slowing to avoid smashing into it. Hand on the metal pillar, he leaned over the automaton’s close-eyed face.

Eyes shot open. A hand with long fingernails flexed against the wrist-strap. The mouth opened, releasing a loud, melodious cry.


	2. Doctor Jekyll

**London, 1888**

The multicoloured liquids bubbled in their flasks, their noise prominent alongside the Bunsen burners’ hissing and fireplace’s crackling. Dressed in waistcoat and trousers, the silver-haired man watched the flasks with intent blue eyes, firelight casting flickering shadows on his thin face. Removing his fob watch, Dr. Henry Jekyll saw it was twenty minutes past midnight. He turned the gas taps off, causing the chemicals’ bubbles to start dying at varying speeds. He lifted the first flask with metal tongs, and poured its contents into a non-heated beaker on the table which held white powder. The liquid and powder hissed on contact, forming milky-green liquid and a rapidly-growing froth layer. He added the other flasks’ contents one at a time. Henry’s face was calm – despite the twenty failed concoctions that had preceded this one over sixteen months, he knew from vast reading as a boy and young man the values of patience and overcoming confidence blows. Henry added the last liquid, and the beaker’s contents – liquid near the brim – turned dark, almost maroon. Froth rolled down the beaker’s sides, but was rapidly disappearing atop the liquid.

Henry gave the beaker five minutes to cool, removing a metal-cased hypodermic needle from its box. Once the minutes were passed, he put the needle’s tip in the beaker and slowly filled the needle. Sitting, he rolled up his sleeve and slowly injected the maroon liquid into his arm. Feeling a slight sting run up the inside of his arm, Henry let his body relax for a moment, sighing an exhale of breath. Then he lifted a lone beaker of clear liquid from the table to his lips, and drank. Putting the beaker down, Henry rose and looked at the old punching bag in the study’s corner, to see if his urge to attack it spiked. He’d looked barely five seconds before doubling over, arms folding over his stomach. He felt like his insides were coiling snakes. Unfolding his arms, Henry saw they were slowly _changing_ , though the pain was mild. His hands were enlarging, their shapes and bumps warping, fingernails lengthening. Forearms thickening, his sleeves started tearing. Henry opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out, the inside of his throat bubbling. He staggered around the table, body’s top half suddenly very heavy-feeling. He managed three steps before he felt like his kneecaps would burst from moving. Henry’s trousers started tearing, the ceiling growing closer and floor further away. Buttons flew off his chest, clattering on the floor. The tingling suddenly subsided, and Henry looked down. His shirt and waistcoat had torn open, leaving someone else’s belly hanging over his trousers’ waistline, said belly flat with a hairy chest. Below, Henry had someone else’s large, flattish feet which looked almost like they’d been sculpted from wet sand.

Looking across his study at the cabinet, Henry rushed forward, taking half as many steps as it would’ve normally taken him. Plucking the small mirror atop the cabinet between his thumb and index finger, Henry looked at it. The reflection might’ve made him scream moments ago. The face in the mirror looked like it belonged to a drunken East End brute. The hair was dark-brown. The hairline had receded from the forehead, but hair grew thickly down the face’s sides. The cheekbones had slight hollows under them, and the brows and chin were slightly protruding, making the face look somewhat deformed. The left beady eye had Henry’s eye colour while the right was blind. Ignoring the building want to do something, Henry raised a hand towards his face – the monstrous reflection mirrored him. Henry and the creature opened their mouths – the creature had uneven-looking teeth. Henry noted the creature’s blotch of a nose, looking like it had been broken before – he remembered the time he’d thought his nose had been broken in university and had felt enraged. The right eye’s diagonal scar reminded Henry of the family dog slashing his face when he’d been five years old – it must’ve been one of the first times he’d felt want to hurt another creature. It slowly dawned on the creature that had been Henry, the formula had worked. Then he realised what the growing black feeling, the need in him was. Dropping the mirror, the creature flexed his thick arms, a grin slowly forming on his face. Malicious thoughts unlike Henry Jekyll had had in years flowed through the creature’s mind. He slowly cackled, voice sounding deep and guttural; like it came from the kind of man the creature’s face belonged to.

Locking his fingers and flexing his arms vertically, the creature sighed. He turned his head to the wide window overlooking the surgical theatre, then with a burst of speed beyond any athlete, he ran and smashed through it. Revelling in his powers and excited to hurt something with his new fists, the creature launched twenty-five feet upwards with a spring of his feet, fingertips digging into the dark theatre’s wall. Then he launched himself another twenty feet at the theatre’s domed glass ceiling, smashing through the bottom part. Barely stopping, he ran towards the moonlit roof’s edge, and leapt thirty feet over a street to the next roof. The creature continued running and jumping over rooftops, laughing, a shadow flying above streets and alleys. He’d leapt across twelve rooftops when he registered someone else’s laughter in his slightly-pointed ears. Looking diagonally right, the creature saw two figures stumbling into an alley a hundred yards away, smoke trailing. The creature’s horrid grin came. Oh, how long it had been since he’d felt his body’s fists crunch someone’s face.

* * *

“How’za ‘bout that nice lady in the theatre, eh, Haggis?” the drunk man slurred, one arm wrapped around his partner’s shoulders to keep him walking. “You know, the one in the purple-y dress?” He sucked his huge cigar.

“That was a faggot, you twit!” the other drunk barked. “Both the ‘women’ on that stage were faggots!” He took a swig from his bottle, while the first drunk tossed his head back, laughing loudly, thick smoke trailing out. Head tossed, the first drunk saw the silhouette looming on the roof’s edge, his laughter and smile dying.

“’Ey, Haggis?” the first drunk said. “What’s that?” He pointed with his cigar hand. The figure ran behind the edge with unnatural speed.

“What’z what?” the second drunk slurred, staggering sideways from standing still. “There’z nothin’ up there, you faggot-lover!” Haggis got out one _Ha_ , before something huge hit the cobblestones behind them, casting them in shadow.

“’Ello, lads,” grunted a dark, slightly-reverberating voice. The men turned around, seeing a gigantic monster of a man looming over them, outline sharpened by streetlamps’ light behind it. Minds gaining sobriety, the men made out the beady eyes and horrid grin. Huge, stocky arms were raised in challenge. “Fancy a rasslin’?” The first drunk’s cigar fell from his mouth. Haggis bolted into the alley, and the first drunk turned to follow – he hadn’t gone one step before the creature grabbed him by his coat, spun on its heel in a full circle – laughing horribly – and threw him. Colliding with Haggis, the first man felt like he’d run into a brick wall full-speed. Both men crumpled, one atop the other. Aware of the creature running at them, the first drunk started forcing himself up. In one second, he was grabbed by his coat’s back and thrown into the wall – to say the breath were knocked from him would be an understatement. Head spinning, he barely registered the creature or his partner in front of his face. The creature swung its arm at Haggis’ back, the sound of a bottle smashing jolting the first drunk’s mind – Haggis screamed long and loud not a second later.

“Come on, what’re you waiting for?!” the creature yelled, body language open like it wanted retaliation. “That can’t be all you’ve got!” Five seconds or so passed, before the creature gave an irritated growl and turned Haggis on his back. It swung a fist at Haggis’ cheek – blood flew four feet from his mouth. The creature let Haggis drop, turning its head. Mind screaming and vision concentrating, the first drunk pushed himself free of the wall-cavity made by his impact. Making to run, he only managed to stagger. The creature pounced, swinging a fist – the man barely felt his head re-colliding with the wall.

* * *

The drunk slumped, eyes dazed, face bloody. Unsatisfied with one punch, the creature backhanded him – blood and hopefully teeth flew out. Chuckling, the creature grabbed the man’s coat and threw him at the alley entrance. He sailed twenty feet through the air, then twanged violently off the lamppost outside the alley. The creature chuckled more maliciously, revelling in the violence. It had been decades since he’d been so close to Henry Jekyll’s surface; not since the three or four secret fights Henry had participated in at university with other students, indulging in the darkness his childhood beatings had fed, and which had boiled over when medical study costs had taken his family fortune. Henry had stopped after he’d nearly killed an opponent, because he’d feared his lifelong career suffering. Ah, how good it was to again know that feeling which came with breaking someone else’s body. The creature picked the cigar up off the cobblestones, stuffed the head in his mouth and sucked. He breathed out, releasing thick smoke. Henry had enjoyed the feeling of smoking, but had only indulged when it was socially called for, because he’d thought the smoke made bad air. The creature had no such compunctions.

“Oopsie,” he said wickedly, removing the cigar to speak. The creature almost couldn’t believe he’d kept up that finicky act of being oh-so-kind and perfect for _fifty bloody years_ as Henry Jekyll. He could’ve laughed snidely at the thought now. Looking at the broken, barely-breathing body in the alley, the creature wondered why he should stop at two. The fist-fights hadn’t cured his childhood issues in university, and he felt nowhere near tired yet – nor like he’d tire ever again. Leaping three stories, he grabbed onto the alley wall, then swung like a great monkey the rest of the way to the roof’s edge. The creature darted across the roofs, looking for more prey whose faces he could smash in. He’d crossed twenty rooftops, finding no-one, when something building in his mind became unignorable – a rational, worrying sense saying he had to return to his study and discover how his transformation had happened. Stopping, gazing at nothing, the creature recognised Henry Jekyll’s mindset returning like sobriety. Scowling in displeasure, he was tempted to continue running and beat the first human or alley-animal he found in direct defiance. But Henry’s rigid conformity and sense of supreme rationality, had already spread well – the creature now felt fear of the consequences more than excitement at harming more. Growl-groaning bitterly, the creature turned and started leaping back towards Henry Jekyll’s house.

The creature arrived in almost the same time he’d run from it to the alley. Henry’s rationality made him re-enter through the broken roof-dome, lest the staff be stirred and see him if he forced entry another way. He hung from the dome’s edge with one hand before letting go, falling thirty feet to land on his feet’s soles. Going to the study window, the creature loosely felt his body shifting, strength vanishing. He shrank or the window and study grew larger, as he climbed in. Thinking he already felt less nasty, the creature went to the dropped mirror and picked it up. He was relieved to see Henry Jekyll’s silver-haired face staring back. After Henry’s immediate relief at his transformation reversing, he felt shock and nigh-uncontainable delight – after twenty failures over sixteen months, he’d finally concocted a mix that could separate man’s light and dark. It, and the fresh memory of the creature brutalising the drunks, threatened to make Henry’s head spin.

* * *

“Yes, my cousin says medical students’ teaching at the University has improved very much since that Amendment Act,” John Utterson murmured. He twirled his glass’s brandy with hand movements, smile on his bald, pudgy face. Henry smiled back, then thanked the manservant pouring brandy into his glass. The servant bowed and left. “There’s no more drinking and grinders like when we were of student age. Do you remember what the university was like then, Henry?”

“Of course I do,” murmured Henry, sitting in his own armchair opposite John, by the fireplace. “The number of committed students such as myself was small enough to form a club.” John _hmph’_ d.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t have lent a hand with the Act, its aims would’ve been achieved much sooner had a name like yours been attached,” John said.

“I would have helped, but my clientele’s needs were heftier than usual, and even so I had commitments of the medical arts which I wished to focus on,” Henry said.

“What are these other commitments, Henry?” John asked. A pause followed, Henry lowering his eyes, uncertain if he should tell John. He looked around, making sure none of the staff were in earshot through the living room’s open doors, before speaking again.

“You recall my… activities in university of which I do not normally speak?” Henry asked carefully. John’s smile faded.

“You told me of them in the utmost confidence,” John murmured, voice more serious-sounding. Henry gazed at the fire.

“Despite the importance of working to benefit one’s fellow humans -” John _mm-hm_ ’d in agreement “-and despite the credits to my apparent virtues, the restraint of my non-professional self’s whims and wishes… is a hefty burden.” John’s mouth was a long line, subtle threat of becoming a frown at its edges. “Do not fear that I’ve disregarded the threat these desires pose to my career. I remain wholly considerate of the risks.” Henry put his hands together, fingers locking in front of his face. “You know I have been a leading advocate of the study of drugs’ potential benefits since before they were widely accepted in the medical arts. When I considered the effects of the many substances we now use, the idea struck me, that perhaps a drug which can separate a man’s intellectual part and passionate part from each-other is possible.” John’s eyebrows furrowed in slight puzzlement.

“You intend to create a substance which may remove the flaws in a man’s soul?” John murmured.

“Not quite,” Henry murmured, looking at the fire again. “I seek to render the divide between a man’s intellectual and passionate parts more definitive, allowing either half to have control over the body in turns. So a man may indulge in his passions, and resume his moral obligations untainted by his indulgences.” A brief pause followed. Then John chuckled like he’d heard a good joke.

“You seek to remove the threat of corruption by walling a man’s goodness and wickedness off from each-other?” John asked. Henry remembered John was a faithful man, and in this instance it slightly exasperated him.

“Yes,” Henry said slightly-tightly, eyes shifting to double-check the staff weren’t nearby. John’s mirth faded, seeing Henry was being serious.

“Henry, it is balderdash to think such a thing is possible,” John said.

“And why is that?” Henry asked, eyebrows lowering slightly.

“It goes against all the laws of nature!” John almost boomed.

“You know that was said about medical practices when they were new; practices we today take for granted,” Henry said calmly, straightening in his armchair slightly.

“Regardless, it is wicked to let one’s cruelty have free reign,” John said with certainty.

“I do not intend to give it free reign, but to regulate it,” Henry replied, surprised at how slightly-defensive he sounded. He supposed it were because his formula had granted him a sense of freedom unlike he’d known before, and here his friend was belittling it.

“But letting it out even briefly would be following one’s darkness nonetheless, and risking letting it harm others,” John argued, no longer smiling. Henry’s teeth clenched slightly. “This is a waste of your time.” John sounded more earnest now.

“It is not a waste of my time,” Henry said, again slightly-tightly. “I am not wholly forsaking my moral stance.” Even so, despite the carnage he’d committed as the creature, Henry was sure there were some evil acts that he just wasn’t capable of under any circumstances.

“I cannot turn you from this path, Henry?” John sighed, hand’s middle finger, index finger and thumb at his head’s side.

“I don’t believe you can,” Henry said, voice neutral, face slightly hard.

“Then I hope to be proven wrong, otherwise that you’ll see your error and turn from this path,” John said calmly. “Until either event happens, with the deepest respect and affection, I obligatorily will not talk to you more, Henry.” Henry lowered his eyes, slightly sad – John was one of his oldest friends, they’d known each-other since their university days. But John was a very firm-principled man – Henry would have to prove John wrong to have their friendship back, which he was confident would happen once he’d utilised the formula enough times to conclusively prove its benefits to man.

“I understand, my friend,” Henry murmured quietly. Glancing at the mantel clock, he saw it was forty minutes past nine in the evening. “I take it you will not stay later on that note?”

“I will not,” John said, quietly. “From here, I must bid you goodnight and leave.”

“Allow me to see you to the door,” Henry said, making to rise.

“There is no need, Bradshaw will see me out,” John said quickly, before turning heel and walking out the living room door. Henry watched John exit to the main hallway, gathering his coat, hat and cane, before the doorman saw him out. Henry’s lips pursed inwards slightly.

* * *

Two nights later, the creature ran across rooftops again, revelling in his freedom. Henry had only needed to retake the formula to transform again – not only that, but his transformation had been slightly quicker and easier, and the creature had already been out twice as long as before without starting to change back. He’d already brutalised a dog, but was hungry for more bloodshed. Leaping thirty feet from one row of houses to another, the creature stopped upon landing on the next roof’s ridge, activity ahead catching his attention. Past another row of houses, two men were stumbling through a lane running horizontally. They weren’t half as drunk as the creature’s first victims, but were still intoxicated, bottles hanging from either one’s hand. Talking and laughing, they stopped upon coming to a man slumped by the lane wall. Enclosing him against the wall, the drunks started pushing and shoving the slumped man, laughing, while he tried to rise. Grinning maliciously, the creature removed a cigar and match from his tattered coat, lit the cigar and sucked. He chuckled quietly, smoke pouring between his teeth, then leapt the distance to the lane.

One drunk had made the first punch when the creature landed behind him with a thump. The victim’s eyes bulged, the drunks turned. A second before shock could register, the creature grabbed one drunk by the jawbone, lifted him and slammed him full-force into the ground. Hearing bones crack, the creature grinned. Yelling made him look back, seeing the other two men make to run. He grabbed the drunk and hauled him back – his bottle fell and broke. Holding the drunk off the ground, the creature ran, catching up with the remaining man in less than two seconds. He swung the drunk like a sack of rocks – his body crunched against the formerly-slumped man’s skull, said man falling.

“Come on, that can’t be all you’ve got!” the creature yelled, grimacing, the drunk dangling off the ground limply. A wheeze made him turn – the first man was stirring on the ground. Grinning slightly, the creature tossed the caught man in the direction he’d been running, then advanced almost-casually towards the first man.

“Such a lovely night it is,” the creature near-sighed, spreading his arms and craning his head. He grabbed the back of the drunk’s clothing and lifted him to face-level. “Perfect for havin’ some fun, wouldn’t you say?” he growled. A yell made the creature look behind him. The other drunk had recovered – with blood running from his mouth’s corner – and was charging, picking up his broken bottle without slowing. He raised it like a dagger, broken end pointed. Raising his free hand, the creature caught the bottle-wielding arm’s wrist a split-second before it would’ve stabbed his belly. The drunk’s very-sober eyes went wide.

“That’s more like it!” the creature said approvingly, grinning. Then he twisted the arm so violently it tore wholly free at the socket. The drunk screamed, blood spurting like a tiny fountain from the opening. He screamed two seconds, then the creature grabbed his head, and violently forced the drunks’ heads together – the crunching sound, mixed with brains and flesh squelching, was like bones crunching when Henry had fought in university, tenfold. A pause passed, the creature’s eyes widening slightly. Then a very loud groan made him turn his head – the man the drunks had been harassing was wheezing. Half-annoyed at the moment’s interruption, the creature tossed the corpses aside and marched towards him. The man was making clawing motions with his arms, with a slug’s speed. The creature grabbed the scruff of his neck and threw him diagonally-upwards. Most of his upper-body smashed through a house’s first-floor window. He dangled with his midsection on the window-frame, then his lower-weight dragged him back out. Cackling, the creature caught the falling man, and threw him diagonally-upwards at the opposite wall, with significant strength. The man hit the wall between two windows, a spray of blood exploding out from the impact. Watching the body fall back to earth like a ragdoll, the creature’s glee, his overwhelming exhilaration at having killed, returned. Beady eyes bulging, he laughed maniacally, spittle flying. He’d done it, he hadn’t just beaten, he’d _killed_. His joy and excitement was overwhelming, as was Henry Jekyll’s shock which made the creature’s good half rapidly grow inside his head. The creature didn’t have the mind to care, too delighted at killing. The thought of taking it a step further by finding out what human tasted like – Henry had always enjoyed sampling exotic meat – was in the creature’s head when his body shrank and changed shape.

Wearing ragged trousers, no shoes, a coat and torn-open shirt, Henry crawled backwards on his hands closer to the lane wall, one hand clamped over his mouth. He initially tried to control his rapid breathing through his nostrils, blue eyes on the broken bodies. The time Henry lay there seemed like both two minutes and two hours, before he picked himself up and fled the alley.

* * *

The first thing Henry Jekyll did on returning to his house was shelve all the serum-making apparatus, intending to never use it again. He took a long time to go to sleep the following night, and his sleep was dreamless. The day after, he postponed two appointments with clients and isolated himself in his study. He read about the triple-murder in the newspaper – the police believed it had been committed by a particularly-strong man, and suspected a circus in Hyde Park. Truth be told, Henry didn’t know how to cope with having committed murder – in spite of the act’s unjustness, he hadn’t read many books explaining how a man would react to committing killing. On the second day, Henry resumed his normal routine around the house, lest the staff see something was wrong. Over the following twelve days, Henry read the newspapers thoroughly, and thankfully read no more of the murders until the day the police had given up.

When he was wholly confident the murders could be buried, Henry contacted John by post – they preferred to send letters in advance of turning up on each-other’s doorsteps – to say he’d ceased his pursuits they’d discussed that evening. John had replied, saying he’d be happy to resume their friendship. He didn’t say anything more about Henry’s controversial pursuit and Henry wasn’t inclined to say anything. For a long time, Henry avoided thinking about his formula, but after six weeks, he became aware of the longing to indulge in his dark half’s mindless passions again. Henry despaired that his urges hadn’t been overridden by the murders, but otherwise didn’t take action to correct them.

Two months after the triple-murder, Henry suddenly woke from a pleasant dream of a beach; one which had ended with carnage, blood and the creature that embodied his dark half. Eyes shooting open, the first thing he was aware of was his bed groaning. Then he noticed the room – moderately lit by moonlit peaking between curtains – was slowly shrinking. Throwing his bedsheets off, Henry saw his torso was slowly growing under his white nightshirt, while his feet were growing further away, toenails lengthening. Eyes wide, Henry staggering off of his half-broken bed. His height increased by two more feet, and his arms’ and shoulders’ muscles burst to new size, making his nightshirt tear away. His face’s features contorted, and he tore the nightcap off with a huge hand as his head enlarged. The creature looked in horror at his hands for only a few seconds, before his horror faded like a dimming light, replaced by a clawing desire for tearing and killing. Lips slightly peeled back, the naked creature turned to the curtains’ opening, hair brushing the ceiling. He ran and smashed through the balcony doors behind the curtains, not giving the sound of glass shattering a second thought.

Standing atop the balcony’s stone guard, he turned his head left and right, looking for visible prey. The lamp-lit streets this close to Henry’s house were relatively silent, but the creature caught sight of a lone figure, practically a smidgeon of black, strolling horizontally across the far end of a street running vertically ahead. The creature leapt from the balcony, landing in the road outside the house’s front, then he promptly leapt onto the middle of the adjacent house’s wall and climbed the rest of the way up. The creature ran across the rooftops, his love of dismembering a gnawing, screaming _need_ , begging for satisfaction like a half-starved lunatic. In five seconds, he reached the corner-house twenty feet behind his target. This close, he could see it was a thin gentleman in a dark coat, with moon-silver hair under his top hat, walking with a cane. In spite of his bloodlust, the creature felt foul at the mere sight of the man’s beautiful hair and clean clothes. The creature diagonally leapt twenty feet to a rooftop on the man’s left, then leapt and landed three feet behind him. Feeling the vibration through the cobblestones, the man turned, revealing a thin, handsome face. His brown eyes widened, a second before the creature kicked him in the chest, sending him flying twenty-five feet. The creature leapt, landing a foot short of the man – he was flat on the pavement, wheezing. The creature chuckled darkly.

“ _C’mere_ ,” he snarled, grabbing the man by his clothing and pulling him to his feet. His eyes were dazed. Picking the man’s cane up by the bottom end, the creature whacked its handle across his head with lightning-speed. His head snapped sideways from the blow, a massive gash going through his hair and temples. The creature brought the cane slashing the other way, making blood and teeth fly from the man’s mouth. The man fell back to the pavement. Growling through grit teeth, the creature brought the cane down thrice more, hearing ribs break, before the stick snapped. Then he grabbed the limp body, and was about to tear off a limb when an annoying, piercing noise reached his ears. Turning, he saw a small round face in an open first-floor window – a little girl with ringlets of dirty-blonde hair, small hands over her mouth. The creature grinned, showing his uneven teeth, eyes malicious. With a powerful leg-spring, he shot straight at the window. The girl turned to run, started to scream again, but the creature was on her house’s wall, grabbing her through the window before she was out of arm’s reach. He clamped his other hand over her mouth.

“Peekaboo, I saw you,” the creature said, then giggled sadistically. In one swift move, he threw the girl at the bedroom wall on his right, hard enough to make it cave. The child fell, limp, a second later. The creature giggled gleefully, then removed his arm and head through the window and climbed away. He heard adults’ voices elsewhere in the house before he leapt away.

The creature searched for more victims for over an hour, watching from roofs and stalking alleys; he wasn’t content with killing one scrawny old joke and hurting a little girl, he needed more before he’d be satisfied after two bloody months locked up! Sadly, this part of London was unusually quiet tonight, and he only got to kill a dog in an alley before he felt Henry Jekyll’s rationality returning, compelling him to return to the house quickly and filling him with the bloody weakling’s horror.

* * *

Henry went pale in the face when he read the next morning’s newspaper. It stated on the third page the man his dark half had killed had been Sir Danvers Carew, an M.P. The little girl remaining unconscious from head trauma had done nothing to dissuade Scotland Yard from starting a fierce investigation. And all this had done nothing to ease Henry’s troubles on top of his unauthorised transformation.

Henry was also informed by telegraph while reading at breakfast – he wondered if the maid who’d given him the printed message saw something off about him, by the way she’d paused – Scotland Yard would be visiting later that day, asking locals questions about the incident. More than once before the early afternoon, Henry looked at his face in the mirror to examine how calm he appeared, despite his concerns there wouldn’t be much point if the police had some deductive skills to recognise false calmness. He would’ve used morphine to calm himself, if he hadn’t thought the police would find that also suspicious.

A moustached constable with large ears and another policeman, arrived at three o’clock. They privately asked Henry questions in the living room – when he’d retired and risen last night, had he heard anything, did he know anyone he thought might do something like this. They also asked how much he knew about last night’s incident, a ploy to see if he knew anything he shouldn’t Henry suspected. Henry was surprised at how calm his voice sounded when answering, despite internally feeling constricted. He told them about his broken bed, saying he supposed it had given out with age, and said he’d awoken to a boy throwing stones at his balcony doors at dawn – the same fabrication he’d told his staff. Henry was relieved he’d chosen to mention those things when the constable said he and his partner would have to speak to Henry’s staff separately. The constable also said he’d like to see Henry’s bedroom, both to see if he could tell Henry something about what had broken his bed and because his house had a view of the street the crimes had occurred on. Henry had quite-amicably granted permission. The policemen questioned five of his staff over the afternoon, while Henry continued his daily business. Despite permitting the police, Henry still felt slightly anxious that his staff might give away some important detail he’d overlooked. So he repeatedly went over relevant details, seeking anything he’d missed that might make him look suspicious – he found nothing overlooked.

The following night, Henry went to bed in the guest room terrified he’d wake to see himself transforming again. He thankfully slept uninterrupted to morning. A soft, irrational part of his mind hoped such an incident wouldn’t happen again, and he could put the nasty business with his formula behind him. But Henry hadn’t given in to sloth and weak hope easily in his professional life, and he dreaded the idea of the creature returning – he remembered how ecstatic taking life had been for his dark half, and he could feel that half’s gnawing, desperate craving to kill again. So Henry privately studied his formula chemicals during his free time, hoping to understand what had caused his transformation. But without animal subjects to test the formula on – Henry was reluctant to risk it in case one broke out and gave him the staff’s or public’s attention – Henry accomplished little in two days. He continued reading about the investigation – no progress was made four days in. The little girl had woken with no memory of the attack, and was no longer able to use her limbs correctly due to her head injury. On the investigation’s fifth day, Henry received a letter from John, saying he intended to see him tomorrow afternoon.

* * *

John arrived at thirteen minutes past four precisely, as he’d written he would. Henry was slightly concerned, as John was never careless about time-keeping but was only so precise when gravely serious. Instead of talking over brandies, John said he wanted to take a stroll with Henry along their usual route – fully walking around the district enclosing Henry’s and his neighbours’ houses, until they’d circled all the way back to Henry’s doorstep. Henry accepted, quickly donning a dark jacket and top hat, and taking up a cane. The streets they walked were highly active with carriages and pedestrians, in spite of the earlier sunny weather.

“Tell me, John, what matters on your mind are so urgent that you are prompted to be precise with your timing?” Henry asked, turning his head as they walked. John, wearing a slightly darker-brown jacket and bowler hat, had a troubled facial expression.

“Henry, have any of your staff seemed out-of-sorts since the tragedy with Sir Danvers?” John asked, locking eyes. Henry paused briefly.

“Ms. Jennet and Guest were both distraught,” Henry said, puzzled. “Why do you ask, my friend?” John paused, eyes leering sideways as though suspicious of any pedestrian listening.

“I believe the murderer may be someone living in this area,” John said, so quietly Henry barely heard. “Given how quickly the injured girl’s parents said they responded when they heard the disturbance, the only rational explanation for how a man could attack her in her room, murder Sir Danvers and disappear so quickly; would be the assailant knows the area keenly.” Henry looked at John quite-seriously.

“Have you spoken with the police about this?” Henry asked.

“Not yet,” John replied. “I’m not certain of my idea yet, and I’m asking you and most of the people I know around here if anyone is behaving oddly before I deem it valid.”

“You think one of my staff is capable of such an act?” Henry asked, sounding aghast.

“I do not know your servants as well as you,” John sighed. “That’s why I’m asking from you if you think one of them has been behaving oddly.” He locked eyes with Henry. “But I also suspect when considering how non-communal some of the people around this neighbourhood are, someone – maybe your staff, maybe a neighbour, maybe not anyone – could be hiding the murderer in a little-known area of their house.”

“Now you drift into the realm of sensationalism,” Henry said, shaking his head and smiling.

“Do you remember the robber that woman eight houses away from yours was hiding?” John asked.

“That was a petty thief, not a cold-blooded murderer,” Henry said, smiling slightly.

“Nevertheless, have you and your staff been thoroughly checking and using every area of your house, Henry?” John asked, looking straight at him. “Because if not, I’d like you to assure me in future that they’ve all been checked by yourself, and not solely your staff.”

“The house is large, and has several facilities committed wholly to storage of old items and laboratory equipment,” Henry said, frowning and sounding annoyed now. He hadn’t liked the thought of a staff-member stumbling across his study’s formula chemicals. “Now, let us speak no more of this ridiculous story.”

“But still, it would very much put me at ease-”

“I said no more!” Henry snapped, glaring slightly at John. John looked taken aback. He kept his silence through the rest of their walk. Henry instantly regretted his outburst, glancing at John out of his eye’s corner. John was a calculating and close-to-suspicious soul, and Henry feared he could now see the suspicion building on John’s face. If John could come up with the mad story about a concealed murderer, could he also guess that Henry were directly involved? Their walk ended in front of Henry’s house twelve minutes later.

“Would you care to join me so we may speak over brandy?” Henry asked warmly, gesturing invitingly with his hand. He hoped it may cover up his outburst’s oddness.

“I’m afraid not, Henry,” John murmured, looking at the door. “I have a client I am seeing to this afternoon, before he goes to court, and will be near-late if I delay.”

“I see,” Henry said understandingly. “Then I bid you good day, my friend, and look forward to the next time we may talk.”

“Good day to you as well, Henry,” John said earnestly, before walking away past the front door, in the direction he and Henry had been walking towards. Henry advanced to his house’s front door casually, but stopped just before entering, turning his head and watching John go. Was his mind truly addled, or did he see John look back out of his eye’s corner? Was Henry going mad to think John’s imaginative ideas about the concealed killer, and the way he’d asked with such focus on Henry’s staff and house specifically, were suspicious?

* * *

After his walk with John, for five days Henry was confined to his study most of the time, looking at his formula’s chemicals again or working on his other drug projects for treating clients. He knew it was abnormal and foolish, but an irrational part of him thought his study were a safe place to work, and furthermore insisted he were at the least risk of being found out when here, where he couldn’t be asked a question and slip up. Thankfully, this foolish period didn’t last beyond the five days, as Henry had an appointment with a client he’d already postponed. Dr. Jekyll had never cancelled an appointment with a client without clear reasons before.

Seven days after walking with John, Henry sat in the courtyard his house enclosed on four sides like a curtain wall, on the bench nearest the rear doors. He allowed the breeze and neighbours’ trees rustling to relax him, before he attended a wealthy client in the afternoon. The early-summer sky was mostly cloudy, but the sun sporadically peaked through. Henry hadn’t heard from John again since their walk, nor had he heard directly from the police. According to the newspapers, the police were pinning the blame for Sir Danvers’ murder and the girl on a strongman who resided a few streets away. Henry thought the awful business with his formula might quietly be buried in the earth. He’d found out no more about why he’d transformed without taking his formula, than he could about how and why it physically transformed him in the first place. Relieving as it had been to indulge in his creature form at first, Henry now dreaded the awful consequences his professional life could suffer if his other half murdered more people, especially if he killed said people too close to his home the next time. Henry could still recall the creature’s mindless glee, how aware he’d been of the consequences when attacking Sir Danvers and the girl yet had completely ignored them. Being free of his responsibilities only for brief periods had been the point of Henry’s experiment, and it seemed even briefly indulging in his dark half wrought consequences on his career and reputati-

Henry felt his skin and muscles shifting suddenly. Eyes going wide, he lurched off the bench, giant long-nailed feet tearing through his shoes, the ground growing further away. He took two seconds to process what was happening, in which time his coat’s sleeves, shirt and waistcoat tore, his arms, shoulders and back expanding.

“ _No_ …” Though his face was still Henry Jekyll’s, he had the creature’s guttural voice. Giant hands flew to his throat as his face’s features melted and shifted.

“No!” the creature’s voice groaned, looking at his hands. A moment later, the distant sound of wood tearing made the creature turn his gaze upwards – to the lip of the roof on his left, where the house walled the courtyard from the nextdoor neighbour. Chuckling, the creature ran and leaped, landing on the roof’s edge. He ran to the opposite edge, looking down to see the pathetic old white-haired coot standing on a ladder against his tree’s trunk, pruning the branches with shears, making quite a noise as he struggled with tearing through a branch. He hadn’t seen the creature yet. He was right there, oblivious as a lamb ready to be slaughtered. Henry liked the man for his keen botany, but the creature thought he were begging to be picked.

“Oh, Harry!” the creature called in a sing-song voice. The man craned his head, bespectacled eyes slowly widening, shears going still. The creature leapt, feet’s soles facing Harold’s approaching face. Crying out, the man made to jump off the ladder, just before the creature’s feet flattened him on his lawn. The creature felt ribs shatter under him, fight instantly leaving the facedown body, grass around it stained red. Laughing, the creature stepped off the body, grinning at his kill. The sight of the juicy if thin old man made the creature trace his tongue over uneven teeth, beady eyes wide. He hadn’t yet gotten to taste people thanks to Henry Jekyll’s pathetic desire to stay in his little bubble.

“Father?” The creature turned his head in surprise, seeing a younger-looking gentleman with brown hair and a moustache appear in the house’s back doorway – Harold’s son who visited this time of year, Henry knew. The man stopped at the sight. He dumbly stood and stared while the creature casually turned his body to face him. After nearly three seconds, the man staggered backwards, falling over something in the house. He grabbed a long rake that had been propped inside the doorway, pointing it out defensively though his eyes were doe-like. The creature sneered and licked his teeth, then charged quicker and more suddenly than a cheetah.

“No, please…” the man staggered two steps backwards in the time the creature took to cross the garden. He hunched low and brought his arms close to his torso before smashing through the tight doorframe. Shrieking, the man leapt sideways into another doorway. He spun as the creature was running past in the corridor, and the creature felt something slice diagonally across his back. The creature halted, registering. Had that little shit just-?!

Looking over his left shoulder – which had a red slash in it, horizontally alongside another crossing his spine – the creature growled through grit teeth. The weakling man looked ready to urinate. He didn’t move, as the creature ran at him and brought his hands together around the man’s head, crushing his skull to pulp. The creature scowled at the dead man momentarily, then burst into black laughter again. That skull-crunch had been satisfying retribution enough for him, and it looked like he was now going to have two human meals in one.

“Dee-dah, doo-doo-do-dah, dee-dah tah-do-dah,” the creature muttered the tune, grabbing Harold’s wrist and dragging him body along the earth towards the house, red trailing behind him. Once inside the kitchen doorway – second door on the right inside the backdoor – the creature ceased his tune, throwing the body on the fire stove. Hunching slightly in the room, the creature looked between Harold’s body and the other on the central table, giggling in glee. He struck a match on his teeth, then stole a cigar from the nearby shelf and stuffed it in his mouth, lighting it and sucking hard. Breathing out smoke, the creature lowered the lit match to the stove’s grate, grinning and laughing as the end went between the bars and the wood caught fire.

* * *

It was two hours before Henry Jekyll’s mind had returned to a point that the creature felt his body start changing back, lying slumped against the kitchen wall – legs taking up nearly the entire floor’s space initially – surrounded by large gnawed and picked bones including human skulls and ribcages. He was sucking the remaining juices off each finger, delighting in the taste. Human meat hadn’t been bad at all – not something to die for, but something he might do again just for the hell of it. The creature laughed one final time, wanting to enjoy his last moment in this form before Henry’s gnawing morality returned. Then his face’s features melted back into Henry Jekyll’s. Henry laughed the creature’s last three or four _Ha_ ’s, before the glee faded and he slowly looked around. He took in the human bones scattered here and there - some with odd traces of cooked meat still on them – as though he couldn’t believe the creature had committed such an act. Seeing the evidence, Henry felt nothing for a long moment. Then, putting a hand to the centre of his chest, he felt like he might vomit in revulsion. In fact, he wanted to vomit, purge as much meat as possible.

Numbly, Henry slid up the wall to his bare feet, feeling the wall behind him with a hand. The urge to vomit continuously rising and falling, Henry half-staggered out to the back garden, mind gaining enough feeling for him to become wholly set in what he intended to do. After what his dark half had just done, Henry had no intention of letting it terrorise people again. He went straight to a ground-level window on his house’s external wall, overlooking the scullery. Crouching, Henry peered inside, ensuring the scullery maid wasn’t about the grey-walled cellar space. Slowly forcing the window open, he crept in feet-first, torn clothes and back threatening to catch on the window despite his thinness.

Henry hurriedly washed his hands in the scullery basin, its water still warm, and exchanged his torn clothes for a half-dried shirt, waistcoat and trousers on a clotheshorse. He didn’t want the staff seeing his suspicious undress and stopping him. He remained barefoot, but hoped no-one would look down and notice.

Henry inevitably passed through the kitchen and servant’s corridor – the staff were shocked to see him here, but he simply told them to continue with their work and hurried along; no-one stopped him. Upstairs, Henry passed two maids who didn’t stop or stare at his feet.

“Dr. Jekyll, this telegraph message arrived from Mr. Utterson nearly two hours ago,” said a maid – the same one who’d handed Henry Scotland Yard’s message – when Henry wound around the front hallway’s stairs.

“It doesn’t matter,” Henry said, raising a hand and practically brushing her off.

“But, sir, I think you’ll want to read this, he said in…” Henry didn’t hear the maid’s words after that. Navigating to the rear part of the house, the door to his study was up a short winding staircase in the hallway, on his left. The room was dark when he entered, the only illumination coming from the theatre’s ceiling-dome. Henry bolted the door behind him, then turned to the apparatus-occupied central table. He mixed green and black liquids, turned on a Bunsen burner to heat up a blue liquid before he added it, sprinkled some pure-white powder into the mix, and added increasingly more liquids. In five minutes, Henry had a dark-green, acrid-smelling poison filling a beaker.

Henry stared at the liquid in a bird’s eye view. He thought about how it would all be over momentarily – no more murder, no more fear of his dark half and the police, no more responsibility, no more anything. Though he wasn’t inclined to openly share it, he’d never been a man of God. The beaker had slowly risen halfway towards Henry’s face when he suddenly felt a black part of himself blooming furiously, screaming and raging with its own half-voice against what he was about to do. Right side tingling, Henry removed his right hand from the beaker. A second later, Henry’s right arm locked, half-raised, shuddering slightly as its features warped. Henry quickly moved to drink the beaker using his other arm. He was stopped by his right hand seizing his left wrist before the beaker was at his lips. A second passed, then Henry’s right arm yanked his wrist with such force that he staggered several feet forward in the study, crying out. He stopped short of running into a corner, only for his right arm to force his left to swing, making him spin and skid across the study. Almost falling to his knees, Henry cried out slightly as the whole right side of his body began transforming – limbs, shoulders and muscles enlarging, half his face bubbling. His right hand grew larger, but his untransformed left hand still fought ferociously.

A loud knocking made the half-Henry creature look at the door, one eye clear and one blind.

“Henry, are you in there?” shouted a familiar voice, making the half-creature’s eyes widen. The knocking repeated. “Henry, I need to speak with you.”

“Please… go away.” The half-creature’s voice sounded like the dark half’s. A pause followed.

“That isn’t Dr. Jekyll!” John’s voice said seriously. “Whoever you are, I tell you, come out now and there’ll be no need to hurt anyone. Otherwise I will have this door broken down!”

“ _John_ …” the half-creature groaned, guttural voice sounding anguished. A brief pause.

“Right. Richard, get something to help break this door down.” The half-creature screamed. His fighting arms swiped through a rack of test tubes, shattering them with a cacophony of sound. He continued crying and staggering furiously, gait lopsided with his body’s disproportionate sides, both arms trying to drag the beaker in different directions. Banging started on the door, near-rhythmic. The half-creature’s mental halves ferociously fought like its arms – one half was adamant about drinking the poison, intellectually aware of the consequences if it didn’t, the other had no real argument beyond a passionate, instinctive survival drive. The intellectual half knew there was nothing left for Henry Jekyll to live for – he couldn’t control his transformations, he’d committed evil acts he’d be hanged for, and the creature had killed far too close to their home to avoid getting caught again. The Henry-half used these as its weapons, yet they served to weaken it, dimming its light like ink spilling on paper, its strength crumbling. The dark-half thus was rapidly gaining territory like an invading army, slowly absorbing the Henry-half like it were a parasitic twin. Aware it was shrinking, terrified of the loss of its sensibilities for once, the Henry-half screamed and the left arm gave a burst of strength – it brought the trembling beaker’s rim within an inch of the half-creature’s mouth, at the same time the door-thumping turned to wood splintering. It was the good half’s last throe before the dark half wholly rolled over it, the desire to survive like a fuelling fire. The right hand tore the beaker from the left and threw it like a cricket bowler. It smashed upon the wall. The half-creature tossed back his head and cried out, whole face and body shifting, falling to his knees. Barely two seconds later, the study door gave in, John Utterson stumbling into the room with the table he and the butler had been using. John, and the near-bald butler beyond the doorway, stared in horror at the man-creature’s scarred back as it finished swelling. Leering sideways, the creature’s lips peeled back in a horrid grin, eyes filled with malice.

“Ah, Johnathan!” the creature said, turning around in the study, hair almost brushing the ceiling. “I’m afraid you just missed Dr. Jekyll, on his way out.” Throwing the table out of his way like it were a toy, the creature charged full-speed. He grabbed John’s head in one hand, then tore the table out of the doorway and ran through, laughing maniacally. He grabbed the butler by the scruff of his suit, then forced both men’s heads against either wall as he continued running. The creature stopped at the corridor’s end, letting the pulp-headed corpses fall. Looking down the next corridor past the corner, he saw two maids come into view, staring in horror. He grinned at them for one second, then ran forward laughing, arms raised like a boogeyman out of a nightmare.

* * *

A few hours after killing John Utterson, Henry Jekyll had returned to Harold’s house in time to remove the bones, though he didn’t dare scrub the surfaces with chemicals lest the police suspect him when they arrived. He hid the bones in his house’s kitchen for the time being, where he also dissolved his staff’s bodies to bones one-by-one using his acid stocks. He waited until after nightfall before burying the bones in his courtyard. Ten days later, Henry had moved to a small estate in Barking that had belonged to his grandfather, where he’d be away from the investigation in his old neighbourhood. Over the two weeks following the massacre, the creature killed again – a pickpocket was found in an alley with his jaw torn out; a runaway orphan whose four limbs the creature had broken, he dumped in the Thames to never be found. Henry was aware something had changed. His dark half was behaving intelligently, considering what victims wouldn’t be missed and whether or not Henry might get into trouble. While Henry’s good half now enjoyed the regulated bouts of freedom concerning his dark half, only being concerned with whether or not the creature’s acts might be traced back to him, and with keeping up his income and good reputation as a physician. The latter two he maintained by filling as much of his normal form’s extra time as he could, benefitting or asking after clients.

Three weeks after his staff’s massacre, Henry found himself thinking quite extensively about his dark half. At first, he’d been satisfied with the creature inflicting mindless violence, as he’d hoped to be when he’d begun his experiments. But in the previous days, Henry found himself feeling unfulfilled, like the regulation between his passions and career suddenly wasn’t enough to fill him. He thought long about what else could make him feel fulfilled. His thoughts kept going back to the idea of a woman, as he’d observed from socialising with many friends and clients they found fulfilment in having a wife or husband. He’d never married, not remembering having met a woman who’d invoked a desire for companionship – or even the desire usually associated with the lower classes – but still, Henry persistently thought he was missing something. So Henry kept exploring, the notion of a woman circling again and again, until the forgotten memory suddenly sprung from the abyss, fresh and weak as the day it had been buried. Alexandrina Victoria, newly-anointed as Queen of the United Kingdom, standing radiant and beautiful in her coronation robes. Her round face had been perfect, her brown ringlets angelic. Henry remembered her eyes passing over the vast crowd he’d been in when she’d been exiting Westminster Abbey, and he’d been certain at the time those perfect blue eyes had met his slightly-brighter blue eyes.

In the indeterminate pause that followed the realisation, Henry thought something shifted in the dark study he was sitting in. He thought the light for his desk lamp somehow became bleached of colour, the room became more visible yet the shadows lengthened. Henry heard clapping in the room clearly. Looking behind his chair, he was alarmed to see a black silhouette in the room’s corner, clapping its hands, otherwise so still it seemed like it wasn’t wholly there. Despite the shadows’ transparency, the figure’s features were cloaked by blackness. Henry slowly rose from his chair. He had samples of his formula in the cabinet a foot from his head, he could get to them if need be.

“Who are you?” Henry asked, voice slightly threatening. The figure continued clapping three seconds, then it subsided.

“I congratulate you, Doctor,” a male voice purred. Henry gazed in shock. “I was starting to think I might need to pluck that memory from its grave myself.” Teeth grit, Henry shifted slightly closer to the cabinet.

“Now, now, there’s no need for that, Doctor,” the figure purred, wagging a shadowed finger. “I know all about your little secret. And even if there was need, it wouldn’t do you much good.” The man’s tone darkened at the last part.

“W-What are you doing here?” Henry asked, eyes wide.

“Oh, come, don’t you recognise your old doorman?” the man purred, stepping forward. Closer to the lamp, Henry saw his unremarkable round face, light-brown eyes, short brown hair – messy rather than combed – and manservant’s uniform. “Well, I’m hurt!”

“Bradshaw,” Henry murmured. “How did you get in?” His tone was somewhat harsh.

“You can’t keep me out with a locked door,” Bradshaw purred, smiling pleasantly. His eyes’ whites faded to black and the irises became scarlet. Henry’s eyes widened, he gasped slightly. Bradshaw sighed and shook his head as though slightly exasperated. “I see you’re still confused, dear Doctor, so allow me to explain.” He started slowly stepping forward, eyes’ normal colours resuming. “Though I outwardly look like a man, I am truly only _half_ a man. Half on my mother’s side. My father was what mortals would call… a _demon_.” He grinned dementedly. Henry had never known Bradshaw could wear such a maniacal grin. Then his rationality kicked in and he shook his head.

“No, this is impossible!” Henry protested. Surely this were all a trick, the eyes changing had been an illusion made with light or he was hallucinating.

“Oh, it’s no trick,” Bradshaw purred. Henry opened his eyes to see Bradshaw was right in front of him. “Let me prove it.” He put his palm on Henry’s forehead. Henry gasped, eyes closing involuntarily. The core of his being suddenly seemed vulnerable and alone, hanging in a vast space inside him. Rivers of blackness ending in tendrils were falling down the walls inside Henry, entrapping his terrified soul.

_Henry saw his old house’s cellar. He recognised the room where his chemical stocks were stored before being moved to his study. He saw Bradshaw, brown hair combed, back to him; the basin on his left, the opened drugs cabinet on his right. He removed a vial from the drugs rack on the counter, poured its clear contents into the sink. Then he lifted a bottle made of solid black material with ornate carvings, and refilled the vial with it – the new liquid was identical to the old. He returned the vial to the rack, then removed the next vial along and repeated the process._

Henry returned to his body with a shudder, unsettled despite the non-physical darkness having left him. In front of him, Bradshaw smiled more broadly. A long pause followed before Henry spoke.

“You sabotaged my experiment!” he murmured. He staggered back, putting the cabinet in front of his head, and pointed a finger at the monster which defied rationality. “You are the reason my transformations became uncontrollable!” he yelled.

“Actually, Doctor, I’m the reason your formula worked,” Bradshaw murmured, sounding nonchalant. “I substituted one of your _ineffectual_ ingredients for something that would help the entire thing work. A bit of half-demon magic that took _considerable time to refine_.” Henry stared and listened, everything rationality-related he thought he knew about the world crashing down. “You wanted your inner-benevolence and –malevolence to have separate lives and a shared body. Who was I to deny you your wish?” Bradshaw’s smirk was pleasant yet taunting.

“…I don’t understand,” Henry said, backing half-a-step while Bradshaw advanced forward. “Why do this to me?!”

“I want to see you marry the one you love,” Bradshaw purred, sounding half-earnest despite his smile. “Queen Victoria.” Henry took a moment to form a response, having not expected that.

“You lie!” he said, managing to glower defiantly.

“Not about this,” Bradshaw said. “I want you to have her by your side, forever and ever. Is that not what you wanted all those years ago, Doctor?” Henry growled slightly, eyes screwing shut. Bradshaw’s words snaked over his mind, making images of the coronation day repeat over and over. The youthful desire rose again, the obsession with her image, her every motion, the thought-dominating wish to have her, _her_ , _her_.

“That was years ago!” Henry said, staggering backwards into another desk, hand to his head. “I was but an impoverished youth, today I am nothing but a physician. And _she_ is not the same woman.”

“No, but if you want her to be the same woman, she can be made the same woman again,” Bradshaw murmured. Henry met his eyes, thoughts coming to a standstill. Bradshaw put his hand on Henry’s forehead, and the horrible sense of being caged inside himself returned.

 _Henry saw a vast cavern, wreathed in flames. Corpses with glowing red eyes lurking in fiery liquid. A vast collection of books and texts; he could_ feel _in the vision how forbidden they were. Suddenly, his point of view was hurtling like a shot arrow in reverse, away from a water-filled tunnel’s end which the glowing cavern was at. His point of view sped up, winding and shooting perfectly through networks of manmade tunnels which water flowed through, the route’s every bend being forcefully ingrained in his mind._

Henry cried out when the vision ended, both hands on his head, wishing he could shake the slimy touch off his brain.

“In addition to the power you already took in with your otherwise-ineffective draught, I have another present for you,” Bradshaw said, completely unresponsive to Henry’s anguish. Henry looked back at him. “A lair with a collection of dark texts, many written by covens all around the world. You’re a clever man, Doctor. With your medical arts and physical sciences – the ones that work, at least – improved by adding dark magic, I’m sure you can concoct something that’ll get you what you want.” At the last three words, Henry seriously thought back to the twenty-year-old Queen Victoria. He remembered how madly he’d wanted her then, and suddenly that feeling was wholly resurrected. He wanted to have her, to tend to her, to care for her, to touch her. Let no-one but him see her radiant beauty, because only he truly deserved it and no-one would appreciate her like he did. His blue eyes slightly darkened, but the hints of a smile appeared at his mouth’s corners.

“Tell me one more thing,” Henry said, looking at Bradshaw. “Why are you helping me?” Bradshaw’s eyes resumed their hellish colour, his brows lowered slightly, face darkly serious.

“Queen Victoria is the sovereign of one of the greatest empires the world has ever seen,” Bradshaw murmured, voice as dark as the shadows he’d emerged from. “Can you even _begin_ to imagine the advantage my father’s brethren will have in this world, if she is turned to the forces of darkness? Bring her to _our_ side, the side which you now occupy. The terms are simple: you give me the British Empire for Hell, and she will be yours for as long as you want her.” Though overwhelmed, Henry didn’t try to plunge wholly into imagining this dark plan. All he wanted was for him and Queen Victoria to be together, to be united as husband and wife, forever.

“But be aware, Doctor, you are one of us now,” Bradshaw murmured, stepping slightly closer to Henry, who was almost pressed to the wall. “You are stained with the blood of innocents, your soul belongs to mine and my father’s king below. Additionally, I do not give away my hard craft to _anyone_. Give Hell an empire in this world, and you will be rewarded _beyond imagination_. But if you fail, in the next life, the consequences you shall suffer will be _beyond description_.” For a long moment, Henry and Bradshaw’s eyes were locked, Henry commanded to listen to every word just said. Then Bradshaw smiled pleasantly, as though he’d just reminded Henry to keep an eye on the meteorological report. “I believe I might see you again.” He turned and started walking back towards the corner he’d come from.

“Wait!” Henry cried out, outstretching an arm. Entering the shadows, Bradshaw appeared to meld with the dark, vanishing. Henry was left alone in the lamp-lit study, staring at the corner where Bradshaw had vanished.

* * *

The huge figure watched the woman in a ragged dress, walking down the alley’s filthy cobblestones, the smog yellow with light from a streetlamp. The East End of London he’d again moved houses to, was perfect for preying on women who wouldn’t be missed. Suddenly, the woman turned around, prompting the creature to withdraw slightly deeper into the gap between buildings he occupied. When he heard her heels resume clicking, the figure darted diagonally across the alley to another space where the walls were indentured, cloaked in relative shadow. Opening his black case, he quickly picked a surgeon’s saw as his weapon. He let the smallest guttural chuckle escape as he leered.

The woman stopped and turned. She looked straight at the shadowy figure, still as a statue. A second passed. Then she screamed loudly enough to break glass, and ran. The creature ran forth with inhuman speed, overcoat rippling behind him. He caught up to the woman in seconds, backhanding her to the alley wall. The breath and fight was instantly knocked out of her, body sliding down the wall. The figure stopped her and turned her around, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes were dazed for two seconds, then became wholly aware, staring up. She opened her mouth, and a giant hand clamped over her lower face. A scream was muffled in the creature’s palm as he brought the saw baring down, twice. Blood flew fast from the cut neck like from a ruptured pipe, but awareness lingered in the woman’s eyes; filled with terror, seemingly aware of what was happening. It made the creature laugh, lips peeling back from uneven teeth, spittle flying. The light fading from the woman’s eyes, the creature promptly released her mouth, putting a crystalline bottle’s tip by it. He saw the life flowing out of her as glowing white mist, sliding into the bottle’s cap. The bottle’s top sealed itself when the last life entered. The woman’s body slumped the rest of the way to the cobblestones. The creature cackled loudly again, stuffing a cigar in his mouth and lighting it with a match he struck on his face. He sucked hard, then raised the glowing bottle.

“That’s one,” he growled, smoke pouring out of his mouth. Giggling, he turned and made his way further down the alley. He hid the glowing bottle inside his overcoat, then extracted another bottle, filled with dark liquid. Tilting his head, he gulped down half its contents. The figure’s shadow on the alley wall shrank and melted at the outlines slightly, leaving a man’s shadow. Bradshaw had been right, the texts in that lair had been very useful. The being currently stalking the East End alley had developed a new version of his formula which he could drink without injection. Not only that, but he’d discovered re-imbibing it in his creature form returned him to human form. Wrapping his long overcoat tighter round himself, the silver-haired man approached the waiting carriage at the alley’s exit, and climbed in. The red-eyed man’s corpse in the driver’s seat, reanimated by black magics though fresher than the lair’s guard corpses, whipped the horses and the carriage took off.

Though the man in the carriage still used the name Dr. Jekyll when dropping and picking certain clients as part of his hard work to become the Royal Physician; he didn’t really feel he deserved the name anymore. That charitable man of decency, if he’d ever been real, had died when he’d first used his dark potion, as far as the silver-haired man was concerned. He preferred a name he could associate with his dark alter-ego’s first several killings, one which the fair his beloved had overseen for her coronation also coincided with. He preferred the name Mr. Hyde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably guess from this chapter, I lean more towards the original good-evil duality, losing-control portrayal of Jekyll and Hyde in Robert Louis Stevenson’s book, rather than The London Assignment’s portrayal of Jekyll and Hyde both being evil and controlling their transformations.


	3. Marishka

**Hungary, 1789**

The sloping woodland was blue in the twilight, the four young people's giggling like birdsong in the gloom.

"Surely you made that up, Lavinia," said one woman, grinning brightly. Unlike her companions, she had Caucasian skin and dirty-blonde hair. She wore several layers of clothing including baggy pants, a red sash above a thin strip of exposed belly, a thick shirt with slightly-hanging sleeves, and a thick shawl around her upper-arms – all her clothing had patterns ranging from simple stripes to flower-designs on them like they'd been made from curtains and carpets. She wore several necklaces, made of beads and decorated with gold plates, and large gold earrings.

"I didn't, Marishka, it's completely true," laughed another woman on the blonde's left, also carrying a sack. She had high cheekbones and thin eyebrows, and had the Roma's dark skin and hair. Her clothing also consisted of decorated materials, gold and necklaces, though her pants were mainly blue, her shawl orange, and slightly more of her belly was exposed. "Uncle Patrin thought this lady was another traveller, and when he followed her to her house, he found a brothel!" The broad-shouldered Roma boy hauling branch wood at the group's tail, laughed.

"That, Timbo, was my reaction when I saw it," said the slightly deeper-voiced woman on Marishka's other side, grinning back at the boy. She was round-faced and stout, also possessing Roma hair and skin.

"What happened next?" Timbo asked. He had a round yet worn-looking face, and wore slightly-baggy pants and a dark-brown tabard.

"He left as fast as he could before someone noticed a gypsy standing outside a brothel," Lavinia replied.

"Though many people on the next street parted and watched him fly like he were mad," the stout woman chuckled. Marishka gave her a suspicious, almost mischievous look.

"Don't tell anyone else of that before Marishka and Lavinia do, Rhoda, or Patrin will never hear the end of it," Timbo warned the stout woman.

"I'll do no such thing," the stout woman Rhoda said, sounding like she meant it. Marishka and Lavinia looked pointedly – forty minutes ago, she'd told Marishka she wouldn't say anything, before telling the first half of Lavinia's story.

"The Tail of the Farsang is five days away," Timbo said, changing the topic. "Does anyone intend to go into the town to see it?"

"What?" Marishka looked back at Timbo, shocked. "You suggest we do that after what happened the last time?"

"It was three years ago, and we aren't in Austria anymore," Lavinia said reassuringly. Marishka looked at her, smile gone. Lavinia tried broadening her grin. "Come, it could be fun." Marishka looked at the ground, lost in memories. When she'd been twenty and Lavinia seventeen, they, Timbo and four other friends had tried entering a town to see the Farsang celebrations, but hadn't gone further than the outskirts before three burly men had stopped them, saying they'd drag them behind a nearby inn and scalp them if they didn't turn around.

"I'm not sure," Marishka murmured slightly-weakly. She rushed ahead of her friends, hoping to leave the topic behind them. Reaching the hill's bottom where the wood turned to grass, she looked at the many large tents ahead – the camp was nearly a mile wide, with many-dozens of people and animals mulling or sitting about. Campfires were already being started. Marishka smiled and shook her head slightly, before advancing on.

* * *

After giving several friends spare mushrooms, Marishka went in search of her father, sack lightened. She quickly found him by the sound of his guitar and singing, like a dozen birds' songs filling the night – he was at a campfire, near a two-wheeled wagon with a cylindrical tent, with an audience of over a dozen people and several mules. Marishka's father was a bulky Russian man with bright-blonde hair, friendly mutton-chops decorating a pudgy face. He wore particularly-baggy, dark pants, pointed wooden shoes, and he had a long, brown-furred tabard with strips of silver, over a grey-white shirt. He stopped playing on seeing her approach, and rose to kiss her on the forehead.

"We have enough to feed six hungry mouths," Marishka said, holding up the sack and grinning. Her father, who was half a foot taller, chuckled heartily.

"Well, you and I had better get to work on this stew, but first I think it'd be best I finished singing or anger everyone," he said, smiling through his moustache.

"Certainly," Marishka said – her father's folk songs from his homeland were well-liked among their band. Retaining the sack, she took a place sitting around the campfire and listened to the resumed singing. Over the following thirty minutes, Lavinia and several other found the fire and joined them. One of the neighbours had made enough stew for several, and offered Marishka and several others bowls, which they took.

"Is it true you and Lavinia are visiting the town to celebrate the Tail of the Farsang?" a young boy asked over the singing. Marishka looked up in surprise, then looked at Lavinia, across the fire – her expression mirrored Marishka's. Thinking of Rhoda, Marishka could've groaned in exasperation.

"We are not," Marishka said, spooning her stew. She'd only eaten two spoonfuls before the pleading expression on Lavinia's face – the one she used when someone had told her no and she refused to listen – became unignorable.

"What is it?" Marishka asked.

"Marishka, please, I do not want to see the festivities but leave you behind," Lavinia said. Marishka was slightly touched – neither one of them had partaken in fun, when it rarely came, without the other by their side. Doing so seemed selfish and wrong to a point where indulging that way just wouldn't be the same. But Marishka remembered what had happened the last time, and though there were no laws against the Roma's existence in Hungary, she'd received the settled folk's message that gypsies weren't wanted.

"I said I didn't want to go," Marishka said, slightly firmly.

"Please, Marishka?" Lavinia pleaded, leaning forward slightly. Lost in his singing, Marishka's father didn't hear anything. Marishka looked up and saw the doe-like eyes Lavinia was giving. "I'll be heartbroken if I have to spend that evening without fun after I promised myself I would go into the town." Marishka's jaw clenched.

"What did you promise exactly?" Marishka asked.

"I said, ' _I swear by my mother and father and their ancestors that I shall see the celebrations of the Tail of the Farsang in the town nearest here_ ,'" Lavinia said. Looking sideways at Lavinia, Marishka sighed in exasperation, wishing she'd worded her vow poorly. Lavinia grinned, seeing she'd won, then looked past Marishka.

"Oh, goodness, it's Lash!" Lavinia exclaimed.

"Don't worry, I'm sure he won't do anything worse than borrow your mother's clothes again," Marishka said.

"No, Marishka, he's set himself on fire!" Lavinia exclaimed, not grinning. Following Lavinia's gaze, Marishka saw the thin-faced, stick-limbed man was running about three tents' lengths away, frantically beating a cloth on his pants' flame-ridden sleeve. Gawking briefly, Marishka dropped her bowl and ran towards him, several others following.

* * *

On the first day of the Tail of the Farsang, Marishka and Lavinia both added an extra layer to their upper-clothing – Marishka a thick shirt with rose patterns, and Lavinia a pink shirt with two dark stripes, covering more of either woman's belly. Marishka removed most of her gold necklaces but one, and kept her earrings, while Lavinia wore as much jewellery as ever. Marishka wasn't worried about their families missing them, as several of their friends had agreed the previous night to cover both women's chores. Marishka and Lavinia slipped out of the camp in the evening, navigating the band's safe path to the main road. The women followed the road without hitching a ride, knowing what could happen to beautiful women in strange men's company with no-one to protect them. Only when they were past the outskirts, where people were seemingly-constantly about, did Marishka and Lavinia stow away on a wagon's rear. They kept their shawls wrapped around their heads so their hair and earrings were mostly hidden, and their faces slightly shadowed. Watching the streets roll by, the sky darkening, Marishka saw more Roma and travellers than she would've expected. Many she recognised from their band, but there were also strangers; selling flowers or other goods, or purchasing. When Marishka and Lavinia thought they were near the town-centre, they got off the wagon and walked the rest of the way in. Unused to the streets' winding and twisting, they asked passers-by if they were going in the correct direction. Marishka was surprised at how few people were openly hostile or looked ready to spit at them.

The sky was nearly black when Marishka and Lavinia reached the Tail festival – Marishka's eyes widened when she heard the noise, and her breath was taken away when she and Lavinia came towards the street. The street – Marishka supposed the town square by its greater width and the central statue – had been converted into a chaotic camp of men playing instruments; sword-swallowers standing above other heads; men riding donkeys backwards; and men or men-dressed-as-women performing in crowd-clearings or from balconies. Several regions of the crowd consisted of dances and various music tunes. Men and women were drinking and being cheered on. Small boys and girls scrapped in the street while adults surrounding them yelled and cheered. There was a Roma minority present. Marishka stared a long time before thinking again – re-observing the Roma, she grinned, moving her shawl slightly back from around her head.

"Are you happy we came now?" Lavinia asked.

"Not yet, but that could change," Marishka replied playfully, grinning at Lavinia. They pushed forward, winding through thick throngs of people. Marishka didn't think she'd been among such a chaotic mess of strangers in her life. Looking at the festival's absurd sights on both sides of the square, Marishka smiled.

"Drinking ten mugs of milk!" Lavinia exclaimed, pointing. Marishka looked. There was a table lined with metal mugs, at which a woman was gobbling a jug's contents, milk spilling over her face, before proceeding to the next. "Perhaps we can both try that?" Marishka grinned, chuckling. “I don’t think so,” she said. She didn’t enjoy that kind of game, because things came and went too quickly for her to enjoy.

“Then what about that?” Lavinia asked, pointing in another direction. Near the milk-table, on the same side of the street, people were dancing in pairs to a small family’s instruments, various clothes giving the group a Roma-like array of clothes-colours. Marishka spotted four or five Roma men and women. Lavinia grinned.

“Maybe,” Marishka said, smiling. She liked dancing – the twisting, movements and mobility it involved had always slightly appealed to her. “Want to join me?”

“I have my sights on something else,” Lavinia said, before promptly pushing Marishka towards the dance, and practically running to the milk table. Marishka saw Lavinia eagerly awaiting her turn by the table. Turning her head back, Marishka slowly proceeded into the dancers, passing between twirling pairs. There was a beat in the music, at which all dancers stopped. Then a stout, brown-haired man grabbed Marishka’s hands, and they were twirling when the music resumed. Marishka stared at the man’s face, before shedding her resistance and grinning. The man led, then there was another beat at which everyone exchanged partners. Leaving the first man, Marishka took a tall, black-bearded man, leading him. She guessed he might be a rich man by his unnaturally-kempt clothes and how clean his face was. The beat came again, Marishka left the kempt man, and her hands were sharply taken before she saw her next partner’s face. The music resumed, and they danced. Looking at the new face, Marishka saw her current partner had a thin, slightly worn-looking face with large eyebrows, smiling pleasantly. His dark hair was held up at his head’s back in a ponytail, stray strands seemingly-deliberately framing either side of his face. Marishka realised she must’ve been staring for some time, but found breaking contact with his blue eyes to be a slight struggle. He wore a black coat that was slightly-open at the front, showing his equally-black undershirt, and he wore high boots.

“You have heard this tune before?” the new dance partner asked.

“I haven’t,” Marishka replied, taking a moment to find her voice. “W- Why do you ask?”

“I would’ve thought someone who has travelled to many places might recognise it,” he replied. “Forgive me, I can recognise a woman of the Roma anywhere, not merely by their appearance but by the way they carry themselves.” Marishka’s eyes widened slightly, quite unused to hearing anyone compliment her people so. It also served to put her wariness of this outsider slightly at-ease. “Do you enjoy dancing?” he asked.

“I- I do, when the opportunity for it comes,” Marishka said. Blinking helped her break eye contact, but looking at the man’s chest, his voice and presence still held some strange power over her mind.

“It’s a most becoming activity for any intelligent specimen to spend time on,” the black-clothed man remarked. Marishka looked at him, surprised to hear her intelligence complimented. “If I may ask, how long have you been in Eger?”

“My band aren’t staying much longer,” Marishka murmured, then suddenly felt slightly-uneasy about sharing such information. “We’ll be gone soon, and I won’t see this place again.”

“It’s such a shame, to have such a fleeting experience of a place, then never see it again,” the man said. He unexpectedly brought Marishka’s hand over her head – her shawl falling halfway-back, exposing her dirty-blonde hair – twirled her around, then brought her arm back down in front of her, pinning her back to his chest. “Imagine what it would be like, if those moments that most only spend seconds on, could last an eternity.” His voice sounded _very_ close to Marishka’s ear.

“Always moving is the Roma’s way of life,” Marishka said nonchalantly, feeling slightly defiant now they weren’t face-to-face. She thought she heard the man release a slight chuckle. He sharply reversed the arm-lock, and they were face-to-face, dancing again.

“Please tell me if I may ask it, how did you come to be in this way of life?” the man asked. He sounded sincere, and Marishka was sure he was only curious – but she got the nagging feeling an unplaceable _something_ was missing about this man, making her feel like she couldn’t properly connect to him.

“My father came from Russia, and my mother abandoned the New World before she came to his country,” Marishka answered. “My mother died when I was born, and my father afterwards sought a different life. We were adopted by a vitsa outside my father’s homeland.”

“How does this life suit you?” the man asked, leading Marishka. “Do you ever tire of it?”

“I cannot imagine any other life,” Marishka said truthfully. To wake, sleep, eat and drink in the same place, not seeing new stranger faces for months, traversing roads leading to another place only to retrace her journey in reverse? These seemed alien.

“Perhaps you first need to _see_ a different life,” the man said. Marishka looked away – was he suggesting she run away with him? She immediately felt like slapping herself, as this man clearly wasn’t a traveller. But she’d heard stories about men and women running away, and she knew so little about this man so far.

“I am very comfortable in this life,” Marishka said rather quickly, fighting the blush threatening to show.

“You might change your mind,” the man said calmly, making eye contact. “I think you’ll find a change in perspective can be _very persuading_.” His tone dipped at the last two words, becoming so husky it were almost a growl.

“Marishka!”

Turning her head, Marishka saw Lavinia half-run to the dance’s edge, grinning. Her face and shawl had traces of milk she’d failed to wipe away. “There is a man swallowing fire. You have to see it!”

“A friend?” the dark-haired man asked pleasantly, looking at Marishka.

“Yes, and I shouldn’t risk her wandering off without me,” Marishka said.

“Then it seems we must part company here,” the man said. He led Marishka past the other dancers towards Lavinia, bringing her hand above her head and then twirling her two feet away from him. “For now.” He smiled pleasantly.

“Perhaps we may dance again,” Marishka said, smiling. She was shocked at her own words as soon as she’d finished them. The man grinned.

“But before I leave you,” he stopped her before she could turn to walk away; “I should introduce myself by name, since I now know your name but you do not know mine.” He gave a small but meaningful bow of his head. “I am Vladislaus Dragulia.” Raising his head, he brought the back of Lavinia’s hand to his lips and kissed – she stared. Then he took Marishka’s hand and did the same, but longer and slower. Marishka was surprised at how cold his lips felt. His eyes unblinkingly held hers as he kissed and as his lips left her skin. He smiled in a way Marishka thought would’ve been warm if not for that _lack_. “May we see each-other again, Marishka.”

“I won’t easily forget our _first_ encounter,” Marishka said quickly. Not sure how to properly say farewell to him, Marishka mimicked the man’s head-nod, then turned and began walking away, leading Lavinia.

“Who was that?” Lavinia asked, slightly bemused.

“I don’t know,” Marishka murmured, instinctively drawing her shawl back over her hair, resisting the tingling urge to look back and see if Vladislaus was still watching.

* * *

When the Farsang celebrations died down, Marishka and Lavinia sought beds in an inn members of their camp had used, paying for their room with their own savings. Marishka didn’t sleep well – she dreamed of her dance with Vladislaus Dragulia, the two of them remaining still while the world spun around them. Leaving the inn just after dawn, Marishka and Lavinia retraced their journey from the camp. They weren’t in much trouble when they returned in the late morning, since those who’d known what they were doing had told the women’s families they’d slept in their friends’ homes – but many were still irritated at the women allegedly sleeping in, which had prompted them to get to work helping Lash with milking cows. Lash had a fear of cows, and he needed others’ help milking them to assure him he wouldn’t be trampled. For most of the chores, Marishka couldn’t stop thinking of the dance. In the mid-evening, Marishka, Lavinia and several friends chased a dog that had gotten loose – harmless but elusive, running between and under tents and a few wagons, and easily slipping out of people’s hands before they had a firm hold. Marishka caught it in the end. She enjoyed the chase – she’d enjoyed playing tag as a child, and this was no different – and wasn’t quick about ending the chase.

The next morning was the morning the band would leave Eger. Waking, Marishka took a moment to register the soft wailing outside hers and her father’s tent. Then she rushed from the straw bed to the tent’s flap, exiting a second before the woman screamed long and hard. Marishka saw a man and woman crouched on the grass right of her tent, a body before them – Timbo. His eyes were closed, body looking undamaged at this angle.

“Father, wake up!” Marishka urgently cried back into the tent, throwing the flap open. Timbo’s mother wailed again, and he shot up.

“What’s happened?!” he cried calmly but fiercely.

“Timbo is dead,” she said. She moved, letting him quickly exit. Seeing the parents, he rushed towards them, wearing the same clothes he had yesterday, as Marishka did. More heads were poking out of tents, and people who’d been sleeping outside had fully risen. Marishka’s father crouched by the body, and she crouched further behind him.

“What is happening?!” Marishka and her father’s heads turned, seeing a tall, thin, broad-shouldered man with curly shoulder-length hair and a bent nose approaching fast – Motshan, their vitsa’s voivode.

“Our son has been killed in the night!” Timbo’s father cried loudly.

“What happened?” Marishka’s father asked softly, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“We found him like this just now,” Timbo’s father murmured weakly. The body’s head was lying almost on its side – looking closer, Marishka saw a small amount of blood staining the neck and loosened collar. On Timbo’s neck, in his skin were four close-together punctured holes. _An animal attack_ , Marishka realised.

“Marishka, get back inside!” Motshan roared commandingly. She briefly looked at him, then obeyed, having never liked his temper being on her. She heard him say more softly something about looking for other bodies, before she slipped into the tent.

* * *

Though slightly delayed, the band set off in the afternoon, a long line of mounted horses and the occasional wagon advancing slowly on long country roads. Timbo’s body was carried on the back of a mule, either of his parents riding directly in front or behind. Marishka was disturbed and glad to be moving on before risking another night; this was the first time a beast had killed in the band’s camp in six years. They travelled south over three days before setting up camp in the afternoon – the new site was atop a short cliff, in a hilly place with little woodland. While the younger unmarried people sought medicine herbs, Marishka and Lavinia were tasked with helping Lash tend to several horses he would trade at a market town.

When the sun was near setting and the sky red, Marishka and Lavinia approached Lash’s tent – the surrounding tents lent Lash’s more space, which was taken up by mules, a couple cows and other animals whose reins were tied to spikes in the ground. Past the tent from the women, a thin figure was trying to calm two of the horses, which were screaming uncontrollably. Marishka noticed Lash, whose back was facing her, was clad in extra layers of clothing and had a shirt tied around his head like a shawl.

“That’s strange,” Marishka murmured, she and Lavinia frowning slightly.

“Lash!” Lavinia called. The figure turned, thin face shaded under the shirt-shawl.

“Lavinia, Marishka!” he called welcomingly in his high, slightly-nasally voice, grinning broadly. He raised his hand as though in a wave. Lavinia all but skipped forward, grinning slightly, Marishka behind her.

“What’s gotten into the horses?” Lavinia asked in concern.

“I’m not sure,” Lash murmured, looking back at them. “Every one of the beasts have been like this since this morning. Only when someone gets close. They just won’t calm.” Marishka was slightly surprised – Lash had never failed to calm horses before.

“Has anyone else tried calming them?” Marishka asked.

“No, just me,” Lash said, seeing nothing wrong.

“Perhaps we can try?” Lavinia suggested.

“I never say no to a handy friend’s help,” Lash said, smiling broadly. Marishka smiled back genuinely. Passing Lavinia and Lash, she was about two feet from a horse’s front legs as it cried and tried to escape its confines, rearing and kicking its front legs dangerously close. She hummed – she’d been able to soothe horses that way before – and they calmed surprisingly quickly. Looking back at Lavinia and Lash, Marishka saw their surprise.

“It must be something on you they smell,” Lavinia murmured, looking at Lash.

“I think so,” Marishka said, stroking a horse’s snout. “Have you been feeling well, Lash? You look slightly overdressed.”

“The sun is hurting me,” Lash mumbled, sounding bitter. “It’s been hurting all day.” Marishka and Lavinia exchanged puzzled looks. Seeing him draw his shirt-shawl lower, Marishka thought his hands looked healthily full. “If you don’t feel it, and if it keeps up, I’ll see the doctor about that too tomorrow.”

“What else are you seeing him about?” Marishka asked.

“My neck’s sore,” Lash said, looking at Marishka. “I think a rat or a bat bit me a night ago. When-” Lash halted, large eyes going elsewhere, then he made a low mourning sound. Feeling sad herself, Marishka walked forward, putting two hands on Lash’s arms and resting her head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry about Timbo as well,” she said sadly. Lash released a slight groan, closing his eyes. Marishka stayed like that with him for nearly two minutes, before lifting her head. “Try bringing those horses out now,” she suggested. Lash nodded weakly, then advanced towards them. The moment he came within four feet, the horses started crying and fighting their reins again. “It’s something on you that’s scaring them,” Marishka said, looking between Lash and the horses. After a moment, she ran forward to help.

* * *

The next day was mostly filled with chores for Marishka – gathering food and wood, setting up her tent with her father, and helping attend Lash’s animals again. Half of Lash’s otherwise-gentle beasts remained terrified of him, and he barely emerged from his tent before dusk, complaining about the sun. Rhoda asked if he’d seen the doctor, Lash said he hadn’t – Lavinia urged him to do so.

The following night, Marishka shot awake upon hearing a scream. It repeated, and her father also shot up. They armed themselves with a long-handled shovel and hoe respectively, and Marishka’s father looked outside first before they exited. Several others and the mules had stirred, and people were running in the direction behind Marishka’s tent. A rifle-shot fired. Marishka looked at her father, whose eyes were in the direction people were running, then ran around the tent’s front in the same direction, shovel held slightly close to her chest. She heard her father yelling behind her but ignored it. Ahead, she saw everyone was adding to a thick throng at the cliff’s edge. Reaching the throng’s rear, Marishka started pushing through.

“What’s happened?!” she stopped to ask a moustached man.

“Beast got into the camp, sent someone over the cliff!” he exclaimed. Another rifle-shot made Marishka continue through the throng. She made it to the front, where hills beyond the cliff were visible for miles in the moonlight. A second rifle-shot sounded, then a pistol-shot on Marishka’s other side. Of the sights below the cliff, Marishka gaze first focused on the large silhouette moving across the hills. From up here, it looked like it must’ve been close to a man’s size, and it ran on all fours, but the way its body moved was unlike any four-legged animal Marishka had ever known, and its speed was like one of the fastest horses’. Another shot fired, before the silhouette reached a dark patch of trees between two hills, vanishing. Shouting and arguing started around Marishka. She turned her gaze to another sight, forty feet below the cliff. A woman’s body was impaled on a dead tree, branches’ ends poking out of her, one arm torn off. Her remaining limbs looked splayed about and broken among the tree. Her head was dipped so her face wasn’t visible, but Marishka hoped the woman’s familiar attire was a coincidence.

“My God.” Marishka turned her head, seeing Motshan across from her at the throng’s front, staring down. Five seconds later, his face became steely. “We need a party of armed, able-bodied men to get the woman’s body back!” he addressed the throng. “Who will accompany me?!” Over a dozen voices started responding.

“Marishka!” Turning her head, Marishka saw her father approaching. She felt the urge to cringe at his pudgy face’s stormy look. “What were you doing, running head-first like that?! We didn’t know what was happening, you could have been killed for all you knew!” He paused, just a little fury seeming to leave him. “Come.” He grabbed Marishka’s arm and made to turn her away from the cliff.

“No- Father, I fear that woman might be who it looks like it is!” Marishka shouted, stopping him. He looked down the cliff, recognition dawning on his face.

“Oh, no…” he murmured dreadfully, face now like thunderclouds which had little thunder left.

Two-dozen men were below the cliff in four minutes, several helping three men climb into the tree while others watched the hills for the beast’s reappearance. The men began forcing the body upwards off the branches’ ends. As it slid off, the head lolled, and Marishka clearly saw the pale face, its mouth half-open. It was Rhoda. Marishka’s hand slowly floated to her mouth in horror, watching the men lower the body to their ground-based fellows. Marishka’s father let her stare seven seconds longer before turning her away, marching with her towards the throng’s back.

* * *

The next day, half the men in the camp formed a hunting party, scouring the hills for the beast. At the same time, a wake was held for Rhoda’s body before she’d be buried in the evening – Motshan had said if the hunting party didn’t kill the beast before dusk, the camp would move out early. Marishka was quite glad of that decision. She also grew increasingly disturbed, hearing from neighbours what had happened the previous night. The animal had come into the camp before everyone had retired for rest, moving so fast it was only there a split-second. Apparently, it had run straight through Rhoda without stopping and sent them both over the cliff. Many people couldn’t agree on what the animal looked like – they hadn’t clearly seen it, and some said it was the size of a man, it was a bear or it was a wolf. Marishka shuddered, not thinking any animal could leap from that cliff and run as fast as the silhouette had. Half the camp were inclined to agree with her, saying it was the Devil’s work.

In the same day’s mid-afternoon, Marishka lost another loved one. One of Lash’s cousins had found his body inside his tent, having apparently died of sickness – his eyes had been open and he’d been horribly pale, having died of sickness. Marishka could’ve collapsed to her knees at the news, with this death occurring so soon after Rhoda’s and Timbo’s. Lash’s body and Rhoda’s had separate wakes that weren’t geographically far apart, with so many of the band out hunting. Considering the deaths – how they were so close-together, were so sudden, and had all been some of her closest friends – Marishka had the mad urge to laugh out loud. The party, which had included her father, returned an hour before sunset with no slain beast. With everyone present for the ceremony, Lash and Rhoda’s bodies were buried side-by-side. After the hunting party’s failure, Marishka looked forward to leaving this place tomorrow – and hoped she was mad to think death were following the band, and following her specifically.

* * *

Marishka woke easily, having retired with a sense of semi-alertness tonight. She heard a scream, then she also registered the cries of terrified animals and a second voice screaming. She shot up just before her father. The first thing they noticed was the orange glow outside the tent’s slit. Marishka stared a moment, before her mind took action around the same time her father started moving. Going to the slit, they pulled the flap back – revealing a scene of utter carnage that Marishka’s mind couldn’t emotionally respond to in one go.

A fire – no, two fires – were burning in the camp, left and right from Marishka’s tent. The left-hand fire was far away, its glow and smoke rising above the tents’ tops. The right-hand fire was probably ten tents away from theirs, engulfing tents’ rapidly-disintegrating skeletons. Its glow made the camp as visible as though it were late evening. People were running in various directions, crying and screaming, as were animals that had gotten loose. A few mules tied to the ground fought their reins in panic.

“ _Quickly, come on_!” Marishka’s father cried. They both began exiting the tent, but froze instinctively when they heard a growl – it sounded loosely like a dog snarling, but far deeper and louder than any dog they’d ever heard. Then they saw the wolf-like monster burst from between a tent and wagon, running so fast on its clawed feet and man-like fists that it chased down an old woman in seconds. She screamed as the beast – shaped quite like a man, but possessing a wolf’s head and blonde-yellow fur – started tearing into her. Marishka acted first, grabbing a pitchfork from inside the tent. Her father promptly grabbed a hoe. Marishka looked around, then started running leftwards from the tent, never wholly taking her eyes off the creature; her father right behind her. She saw another shape like the wolf-monster running horizontally behind several tents. The first wolf-monster suddenly abandoned the disembowelled woman, running off.

“ _Go_!” Marishka’s father cried. She hadn’t run two steps further, before a truly horrible sound made them both look up. Visible in the firelight, a gigantic winged monstrosity flew over the camp – it had a very-muscular man-like body with arms, and bat-like wings that made it as wide as a large wagon were long from back-to-front. It had a hideous face, needle-like teeth filling a large mouth. Flying horizontally in front of Marishka, it swooped low and picked a man up off the ground with its hands, then arced upwards, lunging its face at his neck. Just before the bat-monster disappeared, another winged shape caught Marishka’s gaze, flying above the camp in her general direction. It stood out by its white skin. As it got closer, flying with unnatural speed like that of the wolf-monster, Marishka thought she made out a woman-like body-shape and caught blue eyes which felt like they saw her; before it shot over her head. Marishka didn’t waste any further time, continuing to run ahead. She heard something smash through wood and falling objects behind her, heard a woman screaming and wolf-monster snarling, but didn’t look. She barely looked behind herself to make sure her father was still with her. Neither of them had any plan, and there was too much chaos around them to try and stop anyone and form a group. Their only plan was to run to the camp’s edge as fast as they could, avoiding the left-hand fire.

A couple wolf-creatures ran by around Marishka and her father, but thankfully none of them seemed to come for them. But their growling was near-constant, and the way it changed from close-sounding to distant-sounding made sound unreliable for telling if one of them was near. Marishka became certain there were more than two wolves, seeing a red-haired wolf once and a black-haired wolf three times. At one point, Marishka and her father saw a young woman they knew directly in their path – her eyes met theirs one second before the blonde wolf pounced on her from out of nowhere. Eyes remaining on the sight, Marishka and her father quickly edged around the wolf-creature in a ten-foot semicircle. The wolf raked its clawed fingers through the woman’s neck, then bounded away. That awful screech, sounding dangerously close, made father and daughter look up. The first bat-monster was flying in a horizontal line ahead of them – so low its claws could brush the tallest tents’ tops – but its face was fully facing them. Marishka could swear she felt the beady eyes in dark sockets watching her. The monster changed direction, flying towards them. Marishka and her father sprinted fast. The monster flew overhead without diving at them, screeching again.

Marishka and her father hadn’t run past more than ten tents and a few wagons, before a monstrous roar made Marishka’s head turn. She saw one of the wolf-monsters running at them thirty feet away, saw its yellow eyes. Its fists and feet left the ground as it leapt, shooting fast through the air. Terror made Marishka completely seize up for a second. Then, almost unconsciously, she drew her arm back and threw her pitchfork. Its spikes went all the way into the wolf’s shoulder, making it screech, losing focus. Strong arms tore Marishka out of the wolf’s path, just before it shot through a tall tent’s opening. Marishka saw the tent collapse, just before her father dragged her behind him by her wrist, both of them running. Looking and seeing no other wolf-creatures around, Marishka looked back over her shoulder without stopping. She saw the wolf-monster’s arm and head tear through the fallen tent. Its yellow eyes instantly found her and it roared furiously. Before its roar had finished, Marishka heard the first bat-monster screech above, though she didn’t see it. The wolf looked up, then tore wholly freely of the tent and took off in another direction. Marishka’s wide eyes lingered a second longer, before she turned them and her thoughts back on where she and her father were running.

A black-haired wolf pounced on a wandering old man, Marishka and her father skidding to a halt before they could run into it. Marishka’s father kept his body between her and the wolf as they circled around hurriedly. Eyes on the wolf, Marishka didn’t notice the dark gap between two tents she was slightly backtracking towards. Back hitting something, Marishka spun around, and found herself staring at a stick-bodied man, large-eyed face looking oddly serene-minded. Staring at Lash with wide eyes, Marishka grabbed her father’s wrist. He also turned. Lash, looking like Marishka remembered except for his slightly earth-caked burial clothes, smiled a cold smile she didn’t recognise. Rather-suddenly, Marishka’s father pushed her behind him with one hand. Glaring at the Russian, Lash’s features suddenly contorted with rage, irises turning bright-yellow. Opening his mouth, his lower-jaw went unnaturally-low, teeth becoming pointed and some lengthening as he made an inhuman hissing sound. Marishka and her father immediately turned and ran.

Not ten seconds later, a horse-drawn wagon – the one with the cylindrical tent – crossed Marishka and her father’s path. Both its horses had someone on their backs, while three other people clung to the wagon’s tent on the side facing Marishka. Father and daughter ran forward. Marishka jumped and grabbed onto the tent near the front – her father, climbing on at the same time beside her, pushed her up the rest of the way, helping her get her feet on the wagon’s ledge. Front pressed to the tent, Marishka turned her head to look forwards. One horse and the man riding it, were clearly visible. Marishka could see half of the next rider past the tent, and thought they were a woman.

“We need to get out of the camp!” Marishka’s father shouted loudly behind her head to be heard.

“We know!” the woman rider shouted back. As the wagon shot on, though Marishka couldn’t look behind her back, she saw tents, other wagons, panicked animals, and disembowelled corpses roll by in front. The fire that had been far from her tent was dangerously close on their side of the wagon, flames rising above unburnt tents’ tops.

“Marishka!” her father yelled, making her looked towards the wagon’s back. “Go to the front!” She didn’t need to be told twice. She was the closest person to the corner and started edging forwards. She heard her father yell at the people further back to get closer to the front. Marishka quickly navigated round the corner behind the riders, and was relieved to reach the tent’s semi-circular opening. Putting her feet and most of her body inside the tent, she was helping her father around the corner when a growl made them look in front of the wagon. A grey-haired wolf-monster pounced from twenty feet away. The female rider screamed, less than two seconds before the wolf-beast knocked her off her horse, both of them hurtling past the wagon’s side to the ground. Unbalanced, the male rider began sliding off his horse with a cry.

“ _No_!” Marishka reached to grab him, too late. He slid off, and the wagon twice bumped violently as he went under the wheels, his screaming trailing behind them. Marishka looked at her father. His bearded face was on the rider-less horses, brown eyes’ terror making her feel unnerved. His eyes momentarily locked with hers in silent communication. Then Marishka leapt from the wagon onto the male rider’s horse. Her father leapt onto the adjacent horse’s back.

“Everyone move, hurry!” Marishka’s father yelled back at the other people, who were still edging forward from the tent’s side. In front, the flames were dangerously close, less than ten feet from the right-hand horse, light turning father and daughter’s faces bright-orange. There were no more people or animals in sight, though there was still distant screaming and growling. Marishka and her father tried steering the horses away from the flames – that would take them straight to the camp’s border. A burning tent passed disturbingly close to Marishka’s side. The horses began changing course, too slowly. A flame-engulfed wagon passed so close that Marishka felt its heat slightly sear her leg, her horse screeching in panic. She looked behind her shoulder as the burning wagon rolled away, seeing its flames graze the tent’s rear corner. A single flame clung to the tent, and slowly began spreading.

“The wagon is on fire!” Marishka shouted at her father, whilst the first person behind them rounded the corner into the tent. Marishka’s father looked at her with dreadful shock, a moment before an unnatural-sounding wail made them look in front. Marishka had a second to see the woman-bat shoot towards her, see its black hair, human-shaped head, and two upper-fangs in its mouth; before it knocked her backwards, arcing upwards as it did to avoid hitting the tent. The force was such that Marishka hurtled straight to the tent’s back, past the two huddled people. Forcing herself up on her hands, Marishka saw her father, looking wide-eyed in at her. They heard the horrid screech before the first bat-monster swept between the horses and tent in a blur of grey, wagon shuddering and wood splintering in its passing. Marishka and her father looked at the wooden links – they’d been partially shredded and were just holding together. Marishka suddenly ran forward. The bat-woman wailed, then swept over the wagon’s links in a blur of white, feet fully tearing the links. Stopping two feet from the tent opening, Marishka staring.

“ _MARISHKA_!” her father yelled. She looked. The wagon’s broken links met earth. The wagon violently shuddered for three seconds, the links kicking up dirt, then the whole wagon was thrown forward. Marishka was thrown from the tent, screaming, while the wagon’s burning back-end went over its front and everyone outside the tent being dislodged. Arms raised, Marishka prepared for the earth to tear her skin. Instead, something large flew into her side, wrapping two strong limbs around her and pressing her to itself. Marishka felt wind blowing around her, except the wind’s direction was twisting and spinning abnormally. Slowly lowering her arms, Marishka gaped in shock – the ground was at least three tents’ length below her, the camp’s tents, wagons and corpses passing by, the whole world spinning slightly. But she felt no tilting vehicle, nor anything underneath her feet, which could only mean… _she was flying_! Briefly overwhelmed, once the utter shock had passed, Marishka craned her head – she found herself staring at the darker bat-monster’s horrible face, less than two feet from hers. She could see the flesh’s protruding veins, the creature’s black hair behind its swollen forehead, the elf-like ears, and the gum and teeth the creature’s lips didn’t fully draw over. The monster turned its head to face her, revealing its sunken grey eyes, and Marishka instantly felt her mind calm by a will other than its own. The creature’s lips and facial features contorted, forming a spike-toothed grin.

“ _Marishka_!” she heard her father’s voice yelling distantly. The monster broke eye contact, as though permitting Marishka to look. Looking past her shoulder, she saw the two horses below, far ahead of the wagon. Her father was looking straight at her. She saw the three wolf-monsters converging on him from different sides.

“ _FATHER_!” she screamed desperately. One wolf-creature leapt from behind his head, causing the horses to fall sideways and crash. The other two pounced on her father, his blood spraying the ground. Marishka turned her face away with a pained cry, eyes closed. For an indeterminate amount of time, she quietly wept her heart out in the monster’s arms, both for her father and all her friends and community – her _home_ – dying below. The screaming and growling decreased further while she wept. The monster swooped slightly-downwards, tents’ tops drawing closer. Looking ahead, Marishka saw a wide clearing between several tents and wagons. Coming within feet of the clearing’s ground, the monster slowed its flight, splaying its feet which, with Marishka’s feet, then met the earth. Keeping one hand on Marishka’s back while using the other to grab her hand, the monster led them twirling on the grass, holding their clasped hands away from their torsos, its features melting. In the same moment Marishka realised she and the monster were dancing, the monster’s height shrunk, its hands became smaller, wings folded and lengthened on its chest, its grey and pink flesh melted into peach skin and dark clothing. In a few seconds, Marishka was waltzing in the arms of Vladislaus Dragulia, who was smiling pleasantly as he had when they’d met, firelight casting bright yellow and orange shades on their faces. Marishka could only stare in utter shock, a moment before her mind kicked in.

“ _You_?” she exclaimed.

“Yes, me,” Vladislaus whispered huskily, then halted their waltz. He slowly lowered her into a dip, leaning forward until his face was vertically above hers. Releasing her hand, he traced his fingers up her arm and shoulder to her neck, then brought those fingers to her face, almost-serenely tracing them down her tear-stained cheek. Marishka’s body didn’t resist, and she struggled to make her eyes leave his – she remembered the trance she’d experienced the night they’d danced, but now it seemed worse. Vladislaus slowly reversed their dip, and resumed their waltz.

“W-What are you?” Marishka murmured, looking at him with utter horror.

“I am something much more than almost any mortal man can imagine themselves becoming,” Vladislaus murmured, making them twirl. “A man whose life ended many years ago, but who afterwards claimed a new life; where I was strong, fast, and powerful beyond mankind’s greatest living kings and warriors. You don’t believe me?” He sharply halted their waltz again, then began unbuttoning the top of his innermost shirt. “ _Feel_ ,” he commanded, taking Marishka’s hand and gently putting it on his bare chest. Marishka looked at him in puzzlement for some time, before guessing from having seen animal slaughter what was in that region of Vladislaus’ body. She adjusted her palm’s pressure several times, but felt nothing. She also noted how his body felt as cold as the night’s air. Firelight flickering on her face, she gave a sharp intake of breath, staring at Vladislaus anew. A grin slowly spread on Vladislaus’ face and he chuckled darkly.

“I told you when you said you were comfortable in your current life, being shown a different life might persuade you,” Vladislaus murmured. He sharply resumed their waltz, almost making Marishka cry out when he pulled their joined hands away from their bodies. “Now that you have seen the powers I possess, seen the beasts that are at my command, know that death is an inevitable fate which has already passed me by and I have returned from it; tell me – _are you still comfortable in this life_?” His voice was so husky at the last part it were almost a growl. Marishka’s heart hammered in her chest, filled with dread.

“What will you do to me if I say I am not?” Marishka asked cautiously. Vladislaus smiled pleasantly.

“The same thing I’ve done to him,” Vladislaus replied. He broke off their waltz, leaning backwards from Marishka but holding onto her hand, their joined arms taut. With his free arm, he gestured to the figure standing in the shadow between two tents. Lash was straight-backed with hands clasped in front of him, a very gentlemanly smile on his face, eyes cold – it was unlike Marishka had ever seen the real Lash behave. Marishka stared, but Lash didn’t meet her gaze, looking at the scene with polite indifference. “But you will be more than him,” Vladislaus said seriously, face dark as her gaze returned to him. He clasped both her hands with his, though the gesture was not humble as his fingers stroked between her metacarpals teasingly. “You will be my bride for all eternity. Just like she is.” Vladislaus gestured diagonally outward. Between the tents, Marishka saw the bat-woman some distance away, holding a crying man by his head.

“You want to have _two_ brides at once?!” Marishka murmured, revolted but refusing to look at him, as she felt his power slightly lessen when she didn’t look.

“For a long time, my first bride was enough to satisfy me,” Vladislaus said, turning Marishka’s head with one finger so she met his eyes again, before resuming their waltz; “but we have both grown old since she became mine. It is time for new blood to join our family.” They twirled gracefully around the clearing’s edges. “I have searched far and wide for a woman fit to be my second bride, and of all the women from Ukraine to Germany, I have chosen _you,_ Marishka.” Part of Marishka’s mind was screaming inside her skull for her to look away, and she would’ve complied if she weren’t terrified of what Vladislaus would do. “You are strong and beautiful, which is exactly what I’m looking for.” They suddenly twirled away from the edges, and Marishka rapidly but gently fell into a dip again, Vladislaus directly above her. “So tell me, Marishka,” he growled huskily; then leaned forward slightly, handsome face intent, while Marishka groaned. “- _are you still comfortable in this life_?” For a moment, Marishka seriously considered her options, knowing she was utterly at this monster’s mercy. A small part of her was slightly flattered to think he’d chosen her of all the women across such a wide range, but it was a small part and she refused to admit to it. If she rejected his proposal, she suspected he would kill her, or torture her first. She didn’t want to die. But then she remembered her father, Lavinia, Rhoda, Timbo and everyone else she’d loved that Vladislaus had destroyed. Paying her hearing attention, she once again registered the distant cries and growling. A hot cauldron of outrage boiled inside her to think she would _ever_ join this evil being just to save her own skin, disgust at the prospect of becoming a monster following.

“I’d rather die and stay dead,” Marishka spat, glaring defiantly at Vladislaus. She wasn’t sure what the expression on his face was – his features became calm, his eyes narrowed slightly. She suspected she’d find out soon enough and it wouldn’t be pleasant. Vladislaus slowly straightened up, raising Marishka with him. Their faces were a foot apart. Marishka’s breathing was oddly slow.

“You would choose to be dead instead of living forever?” Vladislaus asked calmly, eyebrows rising as though he were surprised.

“I would,” Marishka growled. Vladislaus’ eyes narrowed, then a grin spread on his face.

“Strong and beautiful,” Vladislaus repeated approvingly. Slowly leaning his head closer, he murmured huskily: “But it matters not what you want. Yes or no, _I always get what I want_.” Marishka’s eyes widened. He forced her into a dip with painful suddenness. The free part of her mind, screaming loudly, managed to retake control of her limbs, and she began frantically punching at Vladislaus’ chest with the arm he didn’t hold. Vladislaus chuckled darkly. Striking him was like striking a stone statue. He opened his mouth, teeth changing while his irises glowed pale-blue. An inhuman hiss emerged as his upper-canines lengthened, jaw lowering unnaturally. He leaned towards Marishka’s neck.

“No! _NO_!” Marishka screamed. A few seconds later, she cried out, feeling the sting of something biting her neck. She half-cried, half-groaned despairingly. Vladislaus’ face remained buried in her neck for several seconds, during which her struggles got weaker, the energy to fight leaving her. She thought she heard the wolf-monsters howling triumphantly in the distance. Vladislaus slowly pulled away from Marishka’s neck – his face looked human, but had blood between his lower-lip and chin. Marishka could only writhe limply while he released her gripped arm, bringing his now-free arm towards his face. Marishka saw the pointed upper-canines before Vladislaus bit into his wrist. A few seconds later, he brought the wrist towards Marishka’s mouth. She saw how little blood flowed from the wound before Vladislaus jammed it between her lips. Body going cold, Marishka cried out defiantly in her mind, aware of blood droplets running down her mouth and throat. Then the pain, fatigue and cold all left Marishka’s body in a few seconds, leaving her numb.

Most of what happened next was little more than sights and sounds to Marishka, no longer evoking feeling. Seconds after she’d drank his blood, Vladislaus transformed into the bat-monster and flew off, carrying her in his arms – one hand on her back, one under her legs. He flew low enough for Marishka to hear the odd screams and growling in the camp. Then he flew away from the half-burning camp, over the cliff and dead tree where Rhoda had died. He swooped towards a particularly-high hill’s slope, landing gracefully on two feet. He transformed back into a man on landing, yet still carried Marishka like she weighed less than a small child, marching up the hill’s slope. Summoning the will to crane her head, Marishka saw two wolf-creatures near twenty paces up the slope, standing placid on two legs. One wolf roared, but Marishka knew it wasn’t threatening. Behind the wolf-creatures was an earth-mound near a man’s height, and directly beside that was a large hole in the earth. Vladislaus walked between the wolf-creatures – their growling breaths clearly audible this close – towards the pit. When they were close enough, Marishka saw it was rectangular, and it had rugged walls on the inside suggesting it had been dug by hand. Vladislaus stopped at the precipice. In the moonlight, Marishka saw it was as deep as a man was tall, and at the bottom was an open, empty wooden coffin. Vladislaus turned on the precipice, then put Marishka back on her feet but gently held her close, their chests touching, Marishka’s hand sandwiched between them with her palm on Vladislaus’ breast. Vladislaus leaned backwards. Their fall into the grave wasn’t hard, it was like Vladislaus under Marishka was falling through water. They hit the coffin’s inside with little sound. Wrapped in Vladislaus’ arms, eyes level with his chin, Marishka saw Vladislaus’ eyes close and smile fade, making him look like he were really dead. She turned her eyes skyward, seeing the more-than-half moon in the grave’s opening. Then a black slide slid over the moon as the coffin lid slowly swung shut on its own. Marishka was in complete darkness.

* * *

Marishka didn’t know how much time passed – it seemed like an eternity, but it wasn’t tedious as she was indifferent to time’s passage. Unable to move, she heard only her own breath and heartbeat – but both grew ever-fainter, then vanished altogether, leaving her in silence.

When the coffin lid swung open, bathing Marishka in moonlight, the outside world seemed unwelcome, like something to recoil from in favour of the coffin’s blackness. Marishka saw the moon was in a different position and slightly-fuller than before. _Feeling_ something stirring through some new sense, Marishka looked at Vladislaus’ head. His eyes opened and he smiled thinly. Vladislaus’ body unnaturally swung in an upwards-and-forward arc from the coffin onto the pit’s precipice, he and Marishka practically floating out of the grave. Marishka looked around, unconscious of how she was clinging to Vladislaus. The first thing she saw was the fresh-looking and fresh-smelling earth pile, in a different place than before, and a dark wolf-monster beside it looking passively at her and Vladislaus. Then Marishka saw the woman standing in front of her and Vladislaus. Marishka was struck by the woman’s clothing – she wore a gown that was white and a bright shade of green, looking like it were made of fine materials. It concealed about half of the woman’s body, transparent material leaving her naval area visible, while her arms and partly her breasts and shoulders were exposed. Her face had high cheekbones and incredibly smooth features, and she had dark, smooth, waist-length hair. Remembering the bat-woman’s face and hair and the way her white skin matched the gown, Marishka’s doubts that this were Vladislaus’ bride evaporated. She stood straight, face cool and composed, looking at the two.

“Verona, my dear,” Vladislaus greeted her. Marishka saw him smile very warmly at the bride.

“My love,” she returned, sounding genuinely warm. Thinking of the bride reminded Marishka of what Vladislaus had done to her. Oddly finding she couldn’t weep for it, Marishka melted into Vladislaus’ embrace like he was the only one who could comfort her. She opened her mouth, wanting to make a forlorn sound – hopefully too quietly for the bride to hear, as Marishka didn’t want to appear weak in front of her. She cut the sigh short when what exited sounded like a small, half-ghostly hiss, her hand flying to her throat. Vladislaus chuckled, making Marishka look at his face again – he looked like he’d just seen an endearing pet accidentally knock something over.

“Your new sister is hungry, my dear,” Vladislaus said, turning back to the bride Verona. Suddenly, Marishka became aware of the hollow, gnawing emptiness inside her, feeling a need for something. “Bring her her first meal.” Marishka glanced out of her eye’s corner at Verona. She was non-responsive, cold expression unchanging. Her eyes shifted slightly, and Marishka felt slightly unnerved at the autumn-like coolness Verona fixed her with. “Verona. Is there something you wish to say?” Marishka no longer had an urge to shudder, but felt like quailing from Vladislaus’ dark undertone. Verona looked back at him, and a beautiful smile which didn’t wholly reach her eyes graced her features.

“Nothing at all, Master,” she said coolly, sounding like she meant it. Marishka watched as Verona changed into her bat-monster form, the gown-materials hanging from either arm forming wings. Taking to the air, she flew towards Marishka’s camp behind where she’d been. The camp was at least a mile away, but Marishka could make out every inch of it, its clifftop location slightly below their height on the hill. It was no longer on fire, but most of it save for a central strip has been burnt, leaving blackened skeletons of tents’ supports. Nothing moved in the camp as far as Marishka could see. Seeing her camp like this, she clutched Vladislaus’ coat front tighter, experiencing the urge to put her lips to his neck seeking comfort.

“You killed everyone?” Marishka asked, voice hollow. Vladislaus didn’t reply, but that new sense alerted Marishka to a feeling of cruel mischievousness. A moment later, with her sharpened sense of smell Marishka caught a faint smell of rotten flesh, besides that on Vladislaus. She focused, trying to pinpoint the smell’s source. Then she saw nearly half-a-dozen figures standing near the hilltop behind Vladislaus’ shoulder. She recognised Lash, and behind him several others from her band including Motshan. All were standing straight-backed and formal, polite cold smiles on their faces. Marishka saw as many holes in the earth behind them.

“Not _everyone_ ,” Vladislaus growled huskily while Marishka stared. “We normally do not kill more than our fill, but this would hardly be a wedding without members of the bride’s family bearing witness.” The wolf-creature growled slightly, as though excited. “And now for the wedding meal,” Vladislaus said, making Marishka look towards the camp with him. Verona was flying back towards them, carrying a figure in her arms. Flying low, she dropped the figure no more than several steps in front of Marishka. The bound, gagged woman frantically tried to worm away on the ground, but stopped when the wolf-creature growled and took a warning step forwards. Helpless horror stabbed Marishka’s non-beating heart.

“Lavinia?” Marishka murmured. The high-cheeked woman’s head snapped towards her, eyes wide. Marishka recognised the muffled sounds of her name being said. Vladislaus backed a step out of Marishka’s grasp, then put a thumb and index finger under her chin, tilting her head to face him.

“Now, Marishka, it is time for you to take your fill,” he murmured calmly. Part of Marishka felt anguished, but the hunger in her suddenly couldn’t be ignored. She slowly looked at Lavinia, feeling starved. Marishka knew something on her face had changed because Lavinia’s eyes suddenly widened and she tried to worm backwards. Marishka didn’t want to kill this woman who’d been her friend, but felt like her will was being bent by someone else’s. Turning her body, Marishka sauntered towards Lavinia, her steps eternally slow from both her inner-conflict and this being her first experience. Marishka was aware of Verona landing a distance away on her right and watching, but didn’t look. Making heaving breaths through her gag, Lavinia wailed pitifully, then made to crawl away. Disgust at the pathetic display festered in Marishka’s stomach, though a rapidly-fading part of her knew it wasn’t wholly her disgust she was experiencing. Marishka planted a bare foot atop Lavinia’s ankles – she barely exerted any effort, but Lavinia was pinned like a mule tied to the ground.

Crouching, Marishka grabbed Lavinia’s shoulder and turned her on her back. She felt her inner-emptiness was devouring her, hearing Lavinia’s beating heart pounding in her ears, eyes seeing hot blood flowing under her skin. Marishka raised a hand, stroking strands away from Lavinia’s neck. Lavinia no longer struggled, panting through her gag – obedient but not very fun. Marishka was about to lunge for the kill when her mind screamed defiantly, _Lavinia was my friend_. Most of Marishka’s mind now wanted to brush that echo of her past life aside, but at its ferocity, she halted, mind torn. She remained still a few moments, during which a single tear slipped from Lavinia’s eye down the side of her head. It made a revolting spiral of sorrow threaten to consume Marishka’s guts.

“Do it,” Vladislaus said calmly but very-firmly. The light in Marishka’s mind lingered, but Marishka’s teeth changed and she pulled Lavinia into an upright-sitting position, biting into her lower neck. The light part was drifting in her head, torn free from its moorings. The other woman’s blood flowing down her throat, an ecstatic feeling of being filled overtook Marishka. The black part of her, which intended to do everything in her power to serve her Master well and ensure he was pleased with his new bride, spread through her, while the part of her that had considered her prey friend faded into the darkest prison cell her mind had to offer.


	4. Verona

**Naples, 1566**

Verona di Rocco stood straight-backed, awaiting the visitor. With the house’s main door open, she saw him dismounting his horse then looking at the house’s exterior. His brown beard was neatly trimmed, eyes slightly small. He wore black, white and gold jerkin and trunks.

“It seems this man’s old blood has made sure to retain some of his ancestors’ beauty,” Verona’s black-haired elder brother, Raphael, murmured in her ear beside her. Verona and her waist-length haired mother looked at him disapprovingly from either side. The visitor, and Verona’s father – a wide man with neat silver hair, clothing in the family coat of arms’ green colour – passed over the threshold into the front hall.

“I announce the arrival of the Most Excellent Grandes Gustavo de Altamira,” Verona’s father boomed at the front door, before the other man entered. Verona’s other brother, a three-foot boy with finely-cut blonde hair, quickly sidestepped out from behind Mother’s back, taking his place beside her. “Most Excellent Lord, might I introduce my wife Tazia-” Grandes Gustavo removed his feathered hat, revealing neatly-trimmed short hair; “-my eldest son Raphael, my youngest son Rinaldo, and my daughter Verona.”

“I am honoured to be a guest in your house,” Gustavo said, dipping into a bow. He proceeded to Verona’s mother first, taking her hand and kissing it while slightly bowing. Then he moved towards Verona. She wore a green dress with gold-embroidered sleeves and a collar that curved outward from her neck, and wore a thin ruff high on her neck. Her dark-brown hair was partly pulled into a pearl-decorated bun at the back of her head, making what hair flowed down her back thinner than it would have been had she been in nightwear. The man kissed Verona’s hand more slowly but very-gently, almost formally. Verona was impressed with his restraint. “I am moved beyond words to meet you at last,” he said.

“I hope we both may live up to each-other’s merits,” Verona said calmly, smiling. Gustavo looked surprised at hearing her accent, a mix of native Italian and Eastern European hints.

“It is approaching dinnertime,” Verona’s father said in a tone that signified they were to move. “You must be exhausted after your long voyage, Most Excellent Lord. Let us dine.”

* * *

The family and their guest proceeded to the dining hall, where Verona and Gustavo were expected to begin interacting while Verona’s family watched.

“How many years old are you, my lady?” Gustavo asked while everyone was washing their hands.

“I shall be twenty-seven in December,” Verona replied calmly. “What is your time and place of birth, Most Excellent Lord?”

“The January of 1535, my family’s estate near Valdecarzana,” he replied fluidly. “It is where I lived the first seven years of my boyhood. The horses bred there are said to be among the fastest in the north of Spain. I and my brothers occasionally partook in races using these beasts, and only the youngest one of us ever lost a race.”

“Please let me hear more about your estate’s horses,” Verona said softly, smiling in interest while her eyes remained cool. For a few minutes, they continued talking about horse-racing before Gustavo changed the topic.

“I mean no offence, my lady, but I have noticed your accent is not simply regional,” Gustavo said.

“It is not,” Verona said, meeting his gaze unfazed. “I was schooled at a convent governed by my godfather’s sister, in Moldova. My godfather was a court musician.”

“Did you ever accompany him to the court?” Gustavo asked. Before Verona could reply, the staff quickly entered with the starter’s meal, placing plates in front of the table’s occupants. The pair’s conversation was suspended, then resumed after the starters. Verona’s father and mother watched with wary, scrutinising eyes despite their faith in her, and Verona paid their scrutinising no heed – paying it heed would be letting them down.

“How many individual estates does your family own?” Gustavo asked.

“Twelve, including this one in the city,” Verona replied. “I am pleased to say we haven’t lost much property to the depression. What of you, Most Excellent Lord? I’ve been told your family altogether owns eighteen estates across northern Spain.”

“Yes, though two of them haven’t been lived in since my father was a child,” Gustavo murmured. “Are many of your estates located on the coast?”

“Six of them are,” Verona replied, sounding almost nonchalant. “The others are inland, and most of them are closer to the east coast than the west. Our largest land is in Tuscany, consisting of fifteen miles. The second-largest land is twenty miles south of Rome, and consists of twelve miles.” Verona mentioned those two lands because she knew Gustavo’s family were interested in gaining land at those locations.

“Tell me of your land in Tuscany - what is it like?” Gustavo asked.

“In the summer’s afternoon, if the weather is dry, the hills and groves are pure-green, the grass rippling like the sea in the wind,” Verona replied. “If there are few or no clouds when the sun sets, the grass turns copper, and the sky turns orange like polished bronze. In the winter, the season’s weather and cold are mild, and only a light dusting of snow covers the land.” They continued discussing the Tuscany property, then the House of Rocco’s other properties – the lands’ sizes, how long the family had had ownership, how they’d seized these lands and how the lands were maintained. Verona enquired about Gustavo’s family’s lands and how they’d gained ownership, quietly gleaning knowledge of those lands’ size and resources. They also discussed lands both families had recently lost in the depression. Simultaneously, Verona and Gustavo discussed less strategic topics, such as simple matters of history and personal opinion concerning the French invasions at the century’s start – Verona did not want a husband of poor character, she wanted one who would, besides making a fruitful marriage-match, also make for a stable one. In the personal arena, Verona discovered Gustavo shared many of hers and her father’s beliefs regarding individuals leaving the classes they were born into – specifically how it affected old noble bloodlines’ preservation and continuation – and they shared a moderate few personal interests. They continued talking for nearly two hours before dessert arrived.

“The meal and afters are finished,” Verona’s father said gruffly once the last spoon had been put down. He stood up. “Everyone is excused from the table.”

“This has been a pleasant and thrilling dinner, full of the most interesting talk,” Gustavo said as everyone stood up. Verona’s father’s face remained stoic, but Verona thought she saw the slight shift in his facial features indicating his anxiety. “And with a pleasantly-full stomach, I am virtue-bound to exercise my renewed strength. But first-” Looking at Verona, Gustavo took both her hands in his. “-I must ask the fair lady Verona-” He quickly and fluidly got on one knee, still holding eye contact and holding both her hands. “-will she give me her hand in marriage?” Looking at him with composure though her eyes were slightly wide, Verona quickly mentally chewed over all she’d learned about Gustavo. She gave the slightest sidelong glance at her father – his stoic, approving smile indicated what he wanted, and it was enough to finalise her decision.

“I shall,” Verona said, smiling coolly. She gripped Gustavo’s hands slightly tighter, almost like a mother comforting a child. Gustavo immediately rose and glanced over at Verona’s father.

“And will you, Marquis di Rocco, grant me permission to wed your daughter the lady Verona?” Gustavo asked calmly, almost airily with a sense of drama.

“I shall,” Verona heard her father say – his voice was relatively calm, but the subtlest undertones indicated his restrained emotion. Gustavo smiled slowly at the man. Shifting his gaze, he granted Verona the smiling look, then broke eye contact, calmly removing a diamond ring from his pouch. He held Verona’s arm up, and slipped the ring on her third finger. Verona looked at the ring, momentarily admiring its sparkle and the silver band’s intricate detail – it was an impressive piece, certainly above average even for a marquis’ family. She met Gustavo’s eyes, and smiled coolly but beautifully.

“If I may, I discreetly hope to explore more of your estate during the afternoon,” Gustavo said to Verona’s parents. Then, addressing her directly: “Would you be so kind as to guide me?”

“I would be happy to,” Verona said warmly. She glanced at her father, who nodded in approval, then promptly led Gustavo from the hall before her family exited.

* * *

Gustavo’s exploration of the house took up the afternoon. In early evening, he stopped to admire the second floor’s view, Verona staying with him. He remained there for over an hour before they proceeded downstairs again, so Gustavo could talk more civilly with Verona’s mother and brothers, getting to know them. Verona’s mother constantly smiled when talking to Gustavo, seeming very eager to have his attention and talk with him.

“I hope you have been taught the proper mannerisms with which to behave at a lavish wedding,” Gustavo said, smiling at Rinaldo, who was sitting next to his mother at the armchair’s end.

“I have attended two other families’ weddings in my eight years of life so far, Most Excellent Lord,” Rinaldo replied. Verona, sitting beside her father on a third armchair, smiled slightly at how her younger brother held himself with his straight back and neutral face, and his defensive response, despite his quietness and expression showing he didn’t want to be interacting with Gustavo.

“That is good, very good,” Gustavo said, still smiling.

“You have my utmost blessings and confidence that your marriage may be fruitful, Most Excellent Lord,” Raphael said, sitting on the other end of Gustavo’s armchair with legs crossed. “It would be an embarrassment if a family as intelligent as ours invested in this wedding and nought came out of it.” Gustavo just gave a sidelong glance, smile fading slightly.

“Of course, we must discuss the details of the wedding while you are here, and we must discuss them with your family,” Verona’s father said.

“Of course,” Gustavo said, looking at him. “If I may say so, Lord di Rocco, my mother and father are most anxious to receive you and your family at their estate near Langreo.”

“I have never visited the north of Spain and would be happy to visit,” Raphael said. “I wish to see how its standards of beauty compare to those of Spain in general.” Gustavo again looked slightly disapproving. Verona’s father glared at Raphael.

“We would be honoured to be your family’s guests, but would be more honoured to have them as our guests in our country,” Verona’s father said.

“I suppose that can also be arranged,” Gustavo said, sounding uncertain.

“It will have to be an appropriately-lavish marriage to be sure,” Raphael said, sounding genuine. Looking at Verona: “In addition to the unification of two respectable bloodlines, we must celebrate the bringing together of a beautiful man and woman, who may breed beautiful children.” Verona glared coolly, and Gustavo looked close to scowling, while Verona’s parents glared much more openly.

“That is enough from you, Raphael,” their father barked rather firmly, in the way Verona knew to be his children’s last warning before he expelled one of them from the room. “Most Excellent Lord, we must discuss an appropriate location for the wedding, whether in Italy or in Spain.” Raphael didn’t speak out rudely again afterwards.

* * *

Verona’s parents eagerly continued talking with Gustavo until the late evening, when the evening meal was had. Immediately after Verona’s father excused everyone, Verona left for her evening walk along the seaside promenade. Gustavo said he would stay with her father to discuss the wedding. Verona exchanged her green dress for a casual, dark-pink dress with long-sleeved white undergarments, and she let more of her hair down though she still held some of it up in a bun. She was accompanied by a burly bodyguard, as she always was when walking without her father or Raphael. She walked a quarter of the promenade’s full length, from one corner at which the land curved to another, then halted her walk to watch the sun fully dip over the sea. It was always beautiful to watch the sun become a golden coin, turning the sky and rippling sea orange. Verona would usually return home before it got dark, but this evening she stayed where she was while the sun dipped lower beyond the horizon – crime was currently very low in this part of the city, she had a strong bodyguard, and it had been a long time since she’d simply listened to the sea while thinking.

“I’ve heard many speak highly of a sunset seen from this city.” The eastern-accented voice spoke when the sky was twilight-blue. Surprised, Verona looked to her right, the voice sounding like it had come from feet away. Her bodyguard also looked. A man was standing beside her who hadn’t been standing there some minutes before, looking seaward with an oddly bitter expression. He had a thin face, framed on either side by black hair strands. He wore a furry hat with a large, grey feather on top, the hat hiding most of his hair. He also wore a long, fur-lined traveller’s cloak with sleeves that his arms weren’t occupying. Under the cloak was a sealed, short coat with intricate patterns sown in, and he wore boots that nearly reached his knees. Almost all his clothing apart from the feather and dark-brown furs were night-black. The man slowly turned his head, smiling thinly at Verona.

“Who are you, fair stranger?” she asked coolly, looking the man over. He turned his full body towards her.

“Count Vladislaus Dragulia, of Transylvania,” he said, voice earnest-sounding. He took Verona’s hand and kissed the back, unblinking blue eyes holding her gaze the entire time. He took longer to remove his lips than Verona was comfortable with, and she nearly scowled. “Who are you, _fair stranger_?” he asked, releasing her hand, which she all but pulled back to her torso.

“Verona. Of the kingdom we are currently in.” She turned back to the horizon, wanting the Count to take the message and wanting to be free of his unsettling gaze.

“Just Verona?” the Count all but purred, slowly stepping towards her. Her bodyguard stepped forward, and the Count halted but barely glanced at his face. “I cannot believe someone so beautiful, in such a noble country and with such eloquent dress, has no title.”

“I did not say it was just Verona,” she said, looking out of her eye’s corner. “I simply do not see any reason to divulge information about my family to you.” A pause passed, in which she was aware of the Count slowly turning on his heel back to the horizon, but still looking out of his eye’s corner at her. For some reason, his gaze made her feel uncomfortable in her own skin.

“Do you wish this stranger removed from your presence?” the bodyguard whispered calmly, leaning towards her. Verona had one second to quickly chew it over – not knowing why she didn’t decide immediately – before Count Dragulia spoke again.

“I detect some of my native region’s accent in your voice,” he said. “Moldovan if I’m not mistaken. You have lived there?”

“I shall remove him if you wish.”

“It is alright, Leon,” Verona suddenly said. Still not looking at the Count, she said: “I spent much of my childhood in Moldova. I cannot say I ever heard your name there.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Count Dragulia chuckled, grinning. “It’s very obscure.” He turned his body to fully face her. “I am not familiar with this country, having visited it few times in the past. And it is wise for a traveller in lands he does not know to have a friend to teach him.” He smiled pleasantly without showing his teeth. “Can we be friends, Verona?” Verona looked directly at him despite his eyes’ effect, her face cold.

“I think you would have been wiser if you had had a friend who does know Naples accompany you here,” Verona said. “My father has always said it is unwise to trust strangers in foreign lands quickly. They could be dangerous people.” Verona turned heel and started walking away.

“ _Unwise to trust strangers_ …” Count Dragulia echoed when a farewell was on the tip of Verona’s tongue, ready to be thrown over her shoulder. She stopped but didn’t look back. “I couldn’t agree more. But I like meeting dangerous people. They make life much more entertaining. Do _you_ like dangerous people, Verona?” Verona’s thin eyebrows furrowed slightly, not liking his undertone. She fully turned heel, hands clasped in front of her, eyebrows raised almost-disdainfully.

“I have met people who are dangerous by the authority they wield and how they have used it,” Verona said with soft haughtiness. “I cannot say I enjoy being in the company of many such people at all.”

“I can show you a different kind of dangerous person,” Count Dragulia murmured, slowly stalking forward. Verona felt uncomfortable at the way his eyes bored her, then disgusted when she thought what that could indicate, the nakedness of the Count’s gaze only revolting her further.

“May my future husband also see this dangerous person?” Verona murmured coolly, raising her arm to show her engagement ring. Count Dragulia halted.

“Perhaps so, for one brief moment,” he murmured, voice almost dipping into a growl at the end. Raising his head and almost peering down his noise, the Count grinned, posture arrogantly relaxed. “Perhaps you and your suitor can even see such a dangerous person at the same place, in the same night.” Then the Count brought his hands together above his waist, posture instantly dignified again. “But until someone has firmly decided if they want such a thing, for now-”

“I shall bid you goodnight, Count,” Verona cut him off curtly. She bowed her head very-quickly, then turned heel and started walking away without looking back. Her bodyguard followed after a moment. Verona walked twenty, thirty, forty paces, but always got the unsettling sensation that there was something on her back threatening to bore into her skin. Looking back, she saw the Count staring after her, alone on the promenade. His clothes made him look like a thick shadow in the fading light.

After returning home and finding Gustavo had already retired, Verona wasn’t be able to wholly shake off the Count’s disturbing eyes, or his voice that had been close to growling, until after she retired to sleep.

* * *

There was no sign of anything coming beyond a vast, bat-like shadow, so thin it could’ve been a small cloud; passing over the hills that lay beyond the city. One minute, light was flickering in the lonely peasant house’s windows, the next minute the light was gone.

Visible in moonlight pouring through the window, two bodies lay on the earthy floor, blood pooling from slashed throats. A black figure stepped over the bodies, boot-steps the only sound in the house, then stopped. Blood dripped from one hand’s fingernails. Count Dracula looked around the bare one-room house, blue eyes slightly wide. It was perfect. Remote, and though time had removed all visual evidence, Dracula sensed something like both a stain on the soil and a cloud polluting the air. It was evidence this land had experienced terrible bloodshed in the past, which was what he needed.

If Dracula breathed, it would’ve been slightly laboured. He liked to think he was devoid of fear, that it was beneath him and for the weak – which to him meant all the living – but there was one he feared. Dracula hadn’t spoken to him in a hundred years, had no reason to. But thoughts of that woman, Verona, plagued him ceaselessly, had done so since he’d spied her from the rooftops near the promenade. He’d emerged from his resting place immediately after waking, and if he’d emerged later, he might not have seen her. He remembered her dress, pink as a skinned body, her smooth dark hair, and her posture. Dracula had felt such passion for another only once before. He knew what was stirring in his dead heart, and one thing was certain – she had to be his. The question was; how was he to accomplish that. Anyone Dracula bit who didn’t die quickly were cursed to become like him, with a portion of the same powers he had; but they were shades of their former selves. Dracula wanted a consort, not a puppet. Dark sorcery was an option, but it had a nasty way of twisting those whose life it extended, in ways beyond the sorcerer’s control. So Dracula would contact the one dark being who could give him a solution if there was any to be given. He tilted his head upwards but not skyward. He held his bloody-nailed hand out, arm horizontally even.

“ _Come to me_ ,” Dracula growled lowly. “ _I beg your audience. COME TO ME_!” He yelled the last sentence so loudly the walls could have shaken. A few moments passed. Dracula thought the moonlight was waning and the air going still. He didn’t sense the silhouette in the corner behind him.

“Why do you call me now, my son?” the figure asked, voice sounding royal yet decrepit. Dracula wheeled around. A moment passed before the silhouette stalked forward, moving with a slight limp, the _clunk_ of a cane accompanying his footsteps. Bright-yellow irises flashed as the figure stepped through a moonbeam, the moonlight momentarily highlighting silvery hair that was tied in a ponytail.

“ _Lucifer_ ,” Dracula said, voice a non-hostile growl. The silhouette stopped six feet away from Dracula.

“Must I repeat my question?” the figure murmured with a slight dark undertone.

“You need not,” Dracula replied. “I owe many of my gifts to you, and I now beg your counsel on how best to satisfy my newest desire.” A moment passed, then the silhouette _tsk-tsk_ ’d.

“Had it not been a century since you last needed my help, I would be none too pleased at having to teach you to flex your muscles,” the Devil said. Then he straightened. “What is it you want?”

“I am the son of the Devil, possessing power greater than any other creature of darkness has walked the Earth with in more than a thousand years,” Dracula proclaimed proudly. “But there is a woman whose face distracts me, who my musings wander towards ceaselessly. It has been a _century_ since I’ve felt such desire! She _must_. _Be mine_!” A pause followed. The Devil made a growling hum, turning his body and beginning to pace away, cane clunking.

“I would’ve thought this emotion would be gone from your heart,” the Devil murmured thoughtfully, stopping short of the moon-beam; Dracula detected the slightest disgusted undertone. The vampire count momentarily dreaded what would happen if the Devil was displeased. His second life and powers were a gift to him, but he was a creature of darkness and that put him at the Devil’s proverbial mercy. “Do not fret, my son. I shall tell you how to bring this woman into your fold.” The Devil shifted his body halfway, head’s side facing Dracula. Dracula narrowed his eyes intently, listening.

“She can be made undead with more power than your other servants,” the Devil said, tone callous-sounding but dark. “To make her your bride, certain conditions must be met. All but a fraction if not all of her connections to this world - _the people she loves_ – must be severed before she dies. You shall drink her blood, and she shall receive yours. She will sleep in the grave, and when she rises, she will be yours – and yours alone.” Dracula’s blue eyes widened slightly, mouth tightly shut. He looked away, gaze seemingly dragging along the floor. Slowly, he smiled, then grinned. Eyes tracking upwards, a dark cackle burst forth from his mouth, sounding half-melodious, half-like a demon in Hell had unleashed it in the empty house.

* * *

Apart from walking Gustavo around Naples – always in her parents’ company of course – the four days following Verona’s engagement were relatively quiet. Verona talked with her parents and Gustavo about wedding plans they were drawing up. They would be wed at Verona’s family’s villa east of Cassino; which they would leave for in two weeks. Four weeks from the present, Gustavo’s family would arrive to meet Verona before the wedding was allowed.

When matters of state or visits by other nobles – congratulating Verona and her father – weren’t occurring, Verona spent free time further bonding with Gustavo – whether by talking or by walking him through more parts of Naples. During a lengthy early evening talk, while descending the stairs towards the house’s front hall, the pair were promptly informed Verona’s father would be entertaining a guest in the evening. Verona was surprised at the short notice, and ever-so-slightly unimpressed by how easily-entertained Gustavo was at the oddity. Two hours before the time the meal usually started, Verona donned an emerald-green and blue dress, similar to the one she’d worn when she’d met Gustavo. It also had a pointed collar, and she wore a high ruff with it. Verona next saw Gustavo when they were moving towards the dining hall for the meal – he wore a stylish black jerkin with gold-and-black trunks, colours Verona knew he liked wearing. They were surprised and slightly annoyed to be informed the evening meal had been suspended by two hours – surprised in Verona’s case because her mother was very strict about meals in her household occurring at the proper times. She and Gustavo spent another two hours talking in the upstairs room with the view Gustavo admired, partly discussing the mysterious guest, while evening turned to early night.

“Most Excellent Lord, my Lady,” an elderly servant said, entering through the room’s door. He addressed Verona: “Your father’s guest has arrived, and supper will begin shortly.” He promptly left. Verona and Gustavo turned heel and walked out after him.

Proceeding to the living area, Verona saw the rest of her family were there, but was unpleasantly surprised to see Count Dragulia, sitting cross-legged on the armchair opposite her father. He was wearing the same dark clothing, barring his coat and hat. She saw his hair was surprisingly long, all of it but the stray strands tied in an eastern-looking bun at the top of his head.

“My daughter Verona, and her husband-to-be,” Verona’s father said, gesturing to them while smiling. Count Dragulia’s eyes instantly found Verona.

“Grandes Gustavo de Altamira,” Gustavo introduced himself. The Count rose.

“Count Vladislaus Dragulia of Transylvania,” he said, giving a small bow of his head before looking at Verona again.

“Lady Verona.” He sounded surprised, but Verona thought his tone wasn’t entirely honest. “What an _unexpected surprise_ this is.”

“I share the sentiment,” Verona said coolly, not smiling at all. She promptly moved to take a seat in an armchair across from the Count, Gustavo following.

“You’ve met my daughter previously?” Verona’s father enquired. Verona was aware of Gustavo glancing at her but momentarily ignored it.

“Only briefly,” the Count said. “We had some conversation on the promenade some nights ago.” He looked at her. “I did not know you were the Marquis di Rocco’s daughter.”

“I was not aware you and my father were acquainted, Count,” Verona said, smiling civilly while her eyes were cool.

“We met two nights ago, at the baron’s daughter’s birthday celebration,” Verona’s father said, sounding like this was a rare trouble-free moment. “We discussed Naples’ past dealings with the French and shared concerns about children and courtship, and the Count and I agreed we should meet to discuss international relations.” While he spoke, the Count was smiling thinly at Verona, whose eyes were ice-cold – internally, she was outraged the Count would behave in her family’s house like he had on the promenade.

“If I’d known who you were before tonight, I would have made sure my arrival was quit _e dramatic_ ,” the Count murmured, smiling.

“Your appearance as it were was dramatic enough,” Verona said with slight curtness, aware of Gustavo’s eyes shifting between her and the Count.

“He is a most fascinating man, wouldn’t you agree?” Tazia chirped. Verona looked at her in slight puzzlement – her mother had never behaved so childishly before, openly frowning on such behaviour. Looking at Count Dragulia, she said, “You must tell us more of your family’s history involving the Ottoman wars.”

“My beloved wife, enough,” Verona’s father said. Addressing everyone, he said: “Come, let us eat before the hour grows late.” Verona looked at her father, surprised verging on disconcerted, as they all rose. They entered the dining hall and took their seats around the table, starters being put before everyone which they tucked into.

“If I may speak while everyone eats, Marquis, you said much of your cousins’ income is based on trading across the Adriatic Sea?” Count Dragulia said, looking at Verona’s father. Over the following hour, Verona’s father and Count Dragulia discussed relations between the Italian states and Eastern Europe, the Turkish problem, and alliances. Raphael and Tazia agreed with seemingly everything the Count argued, they and Verona’s father digging into their food with smiles on their faces. Verona saw Rinaldo alone looking slightly puzzled at their mother twice, when she agreed with an argument she might normally openly object to. Sat next to Gustavo, Verona and her fiancé each kept to themselves when not spoken to. Sitting directly across the table from her, Verona saw Count Dragulia glance at her every few minutes, going for several brief periods without touching his food. The naked dark look in his eyes infuriated her, though not nearly as much as her family’s clueless disposition did. She saw Gustavo look at the Count icily at one point, having possibly noticed his behaviour, while her parents and elder brother seemed oblivious. Verona’s shock at her family’s behaviour began turning to suspicion, thinking something was unnaturally off. Then beyond that, she began thinking the Count had something to do with it – save that he’d only arrived before the evening meal began. Verona inwardly thought she’d be happy when Count Dragulia left. The Count and her father continued talking after finishing dessert, without anyone leaving the table.

“As the hour grows late, I must now take my leave, lest I keep everyone awake too late,” the Count said shortly before eleven o’clock.

“We wouldn’t be adequate hosts if we didn’t see you to the door ourselves, Count,” Raphael said, already rising. The Count smiled and nodded at them.

“You are most generous,” he said. Eyes cold, Verona rose with Gustavo and her parents.

Indeed, they all saw him back to the front door, the doorman opening the main door and letting moonlight spill in. The butler brought the Count his cloak and hat. He re-donned his cloak first, hat under his arm. He said a quick, quiet personal goodbye to everyone, but Verona thought his eyes were slightly colder when he reached Gustavo. He came to her penultimately. He stood directly in front of her, nose barely a foot from hers, icy eyes holding her gaze. Verona was barely aware of how much his eyes were drawing hers in with some strange power.

“I hope we may see each-other again,” Count Dragulia murmured so quietly Verona thought no-one but Gustavo beside her would have heard. Then he kissed her hand, long and slow, still holding her eyes.

“Not too soon for my liking, I hope,” Verona said icily. Removing his lips, the Count smiled at her outrageously. Then he went to her father.

“I hope we may have your company again soon, Count,” Marquis di Rocco said, smiling.

“I’m sure you will, _quite soon_ ,” the Count murmured. At his low tone, Verona’s eyebrows lowered slightly. “Until such time, I bid you a good evening.” Verona thought she felt his blue eyes pass over her as he was turning on his heel, before he re-donned his hat and strode out the doors. When the doors closed moments later, Verona thought a chill she hadn’t noticed had left the air.

Verona and Gustavo didn’t stay up long before retiring. Verona’s sleep was not restful. She dreamed of her room’s balcony doors swinging open, as she watched on the bed. Her eyes were open but her body refused to move. She saw a shadow creeping along the floor in the moonlight before its owner entered – Count Dragulia, missing his cloak and hat. He loomed over her bed; no breath, heat or any indication of a man’s presence emanated from him. Verona didn’t have a concept of how much time passed with him standing, staring down at her; she just thought a significant length passed, before he slowly leaned closer. His face approached her neck, lips touching it. At this point, Verona felt outrage, then fear, mind futilely trying to will her body to move, to push him away. Whilst a tiny, deep part she’d never admit to while alive felt slightly excited. She felt a cold, prickling feeling on her neck. She remembered nothing of the time that passed after that and before the morning.

* * *

During breakfast, Verona had little appetite. She ate, but somehow no mouthful was filling. Her muscles ached slightly when she moved, and the sunlight pouring through the dining hall’s windows hurt her skin, to the point she might have moved to another chair to be out of the sun.

“Lady Verona, are you well?” Gustavo, sitting next to her, asked while her family ate.

“I’ve been feeling unwell all morning,” Verona said. “I hope it will pass.”

“I have had some home tutelage about physical afflictions, I may be able to see what ails you,” Gustavo offered.

“Most Excellent Lord, there is no need,” she said reassuringly, looking at him. Something away from her eyeline seemed to catch his gaze.

“There is something on your neck,” he murmured, brows furrowed.

“What is it?” Verona asked, raising a hand but stopping it short of touching her neck.

“Is something the matter?” Verona’s father asked sternly, like he’d only just noticed something wrong.

“It may be nothing of any relevance, Marquis di Rocco,” Gustavo murmured. “Verona, may I see?”

“Yes,” she said, brushing her half-tied hair back from her neck. Gustavo slowly moved two hands towards her neck.

“Tell me if this hurts,” he said. Verona hissed a slight intake of air, momentarily feeling like there were traces of crushed ice inside her neck, but she barely felt his fingers’ pressure on her skin.

“It’s slightly discomforting,” she said calmly, almost nonchalantly.

“There are two small wounds on your neck,” Gustavo murmured, sounding puzzled. “I think you may have been bitten by some pest.” Verona’s eyebrows lowered – she didn’t remember encountering a bat or rat in any way recently, which made her think it could only have happened by an insect-bite or while she’d been sleeping.

* * *

Verona was frustrated that her family’s ailment of the mind seemingly hadn’t vanished overnight – they continued their daily duties normally, but when Count Dragulia was mentioned, they spoke with nothing but near-trancelike fondness for him and how pleasant his company was.

“Do you not think some of the Count’s opinions expressed at the dining table were debatable?” Verona asked her father at one point when they were walking together. Verona wore a wide-brimmed hat with her hair in a bun, to keep the sun from her face.

“No, I daren’t say so,” her father said, voice dark. Verona thought his stern face suddenly seemed clear and outraged. She lowered her eyes and said nothing more about it.

“Do you not think Count Dragulia received too much charity the previous evening?” Verona asked her mother later.

“Absolutely not!” her mother all but snapped, seeming clear and outraged.

“Do Mother and Father seem different to you?” Rinaldo asked Verona once when they were walking to dinner together.

“Yes,” Verona murmured, eyebrows low. “It is hard to miss.” Though Verona and Gustavo spoke little of Count Dragulia, Gustavo at one point brought him up while they walked the house’s hallways.

“Never have I known any nobleman higher than peasantry to be so lecherous, with the way he was looking at you!” Gustavo squawked. Verona, momentarily wincing as she passed through a window’s sunbeam, silently agreed. “It makes one almost wonder if he really is a man with any lands, and not some gypsy or vagabond posing as a man of greater stature…”

Verona’s ailment didn’t lessen as the day went on – if anything, she felt slightly worse during the evening meal than she had in the morning, food still not satisfying her, her body aching and hurting more. But after sunset, Verona’s aches lessened to a point where she felt nearly well, if slightly weak.

* * *

The next day was the day Verona’s family and fiancé left for the villa. When Verona woke, her ailment was wholly back and again slightly worse. Her father refused to let this delay their journey, but agreed that Verona should be examined by a physician first thing when they arrived. Neither Verona nor Gustavo argued. They departed in the early afternoon – Verona was grateful then that the sky was clouded, letting her remove her hat. The journey took nearly a day and a half. Verona heavily clad herself in travelling cloaks against the summer sun, at the price of making the heat more irritating. She thought near the journey’s end her sickness was certainly worsening. The family arrived at the villa – a two-storey stone house surrounded by half an acre of fields – just before nightfall. Gustavo wanted to get Verona to bed at once, but she insisted on staying up some hours longer, to address state affairs while she felt slightly well. To Verona’s despair, her parents and Raphael acted surprised and concerned when told about her progressing sickness, but seemed to lose focus on it in minutes.

The physician, on business, was delayed from reaching the villa. Two days after arriving, in the afternoon, a local priest visited Verona in her dimly-lit bedroom. He invoked the power of prayer to heal her while she lay there, then made the sign of the cross above her. For some reason, Verona thought the prayer made her feel slightly worse for several hours, like whatever fever ailed her were stung and angered by the blessing. Five days after arriving at the villa, the physician had arrived.

* * *

“What causes her ailment?” Gustavo asked the thin man, who was packing his tools away. Verona, sat up in her bed and clad only in a chemise, looked at the man for an answer. She could barely see the physician’s face or more than half of Gustavo’s, with so little afternoon sunlight penetrating her room’s curtains, casting the room in dim-orange.

“The only ailment I’ve ever heard of which can cause these symptoms is the bite of the nosferatu,” the Eastern European physician said.

“What is that?” Gustavo asked. Verona groaned and put a hand over her eyes that she’d received a superstitious physician.

“The bite of the undead,” the physician said matter-of-factly, standing up. “It dooms mortal men to rise from the grave as creatures of the night. The only cures I have heard which may stop its progression are the power of prayer, holy wafers and blessings by a priest. Otherwise, I fear the lady is doomed to become undead.” A pause followed, in which the air seemed slightly still, before Gustavo spoke.

“Leave us,” he said curtly, glaring at the physician. Verona hadn’t seen him reigning his temper so before. The physician obeyed, promptly walking out and closing the door. A heavy silence hung in the gloom.

“A _fool_ ,” Gustavo hissed bitterly, back straight, not looking at Verona while angry. “I will see to it you receive a physician worthy of his occupation as soon as possible.”

“I thank you for that, Most Excellent Lord,” Verona said. Her eyes were rimmed and her lids heavy. The last couple of nights, Verona had found she was constantly feeling awake at night and sleepy in the day.

“A letter sent ahead of my family arrived today,” Gustavo said, his composure fully regained, looking at her.

“What have they said?” Verona enquired, sounding calm.

“They will be setting out for this place three days from now, and expect to arrive within three weeks,” Gustavo said. Verona looked at the floor, hoping her sickness would be gone within that time lest Gustavo’s family refuse to permit him marrying an ill woman.

“As I said, I will see to it you receive a better physician as soon as possible,” Gustavo said stoically, seeing her face.

* * *

Gustavo poured over papers – the House of Rocco’s recordings of physicians, and old letters from other nobles addressing physicians – late into the night, the study room lit only by a few candles’ light. He put his thumb and index finger to his mouth in contemplation. There were many physicians – _western_ physicians, which he wanted after the unfortunate previous choice – listed, but he wanted to locate the best of them all before finalising his choice. It wasn’t helped by the fact the Marquess di Rocco had granted him permission to use the study and read through the papers and letters, but had struggled like an old man to focus on the problem with his daughter. Gustavo, partly in spite of being a Catholic, did not believe any power but God’s could have any hold on the Earth, yet he still thought the other family-members’ affliction seemed unnatural. Were he not concerned about offending the family and putting the marriage-match at risk, he’d have considered hiring a physician to tend to them, or at least addressing his concerns about their fitness of mind to other nobles. If every family-member but the boy were so severely afflicted, perhaps he should consider breaking off the-

_BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!_

Gustavo’s head shot up – banging on the villa’s front door near the study. It repeated after a brief pause.

“My lords, my ladies! _Help_!” Gustavo heard a voice yell. Puzzled, he left the study desk and proceeded out through two rooms to the front corridor, a candle in hand. The banging repeated, awful to Gustavo’s ears this close.

“My lords, _please help_!” Hesitating for a second, Gustavo reaching forward without stepping closer than was needed, and opened the door. In the candlelight, he saw an elderly man with filthy skin and beard, wearing a single piece of grey cloth, almost stumble halfway-inside.

“Oh, kind lord!” the man cried loudly, looking distressed. He collapsed to his knees, clasping his hands together. “Please help! There has been an awful accident outside, my friend is injured! He needs treatment!”

“Bring him in, I shall see if anything can be done for him,” Gustavo said, while scrutinising the man and bringing the candle’s flame closer. The man’s eyes, which Gustavo thought looked slightly glassy, reflected the flame.

“Thank you for your charity.” Gustavo looked up, seeing Count Dragulia step into view from beyond the doorway. Gustavo’s eyes widened, a second before the Count, with one swift bat of his arm, twisted Gustavo’s head half the entire way round on his shoulders.

* * *

Minutes after the banging, Verona heard crashing noises downstairs, making her look at her near-dark room’s closed door. Concern welled in her, having never known such a disturbance to occur in any of her family’s houses before. She briefly wondered if one of the field-workers had gone mad. The crashing continued in intervals, with relapses lasting seven seconds or less. Remembering her family, and unsure if they were in the middle of the crashing, Verona hurriedly slid out of bed and rushed to the door in her white chemise and petticoat.

When she opened the door, a candle in hand, the crashing sounded even louder in the upstairs corridor. She didn’t hear voices or screaming, and when she wondered why her family weren’t responding, concern immediately welled in her. She slowly advanced down the corridor, grabbing an old sword off the wall. She didn’t know how to wield it, and her father would disapprove of seeing her carry a man’s weapon, but she hoped the sight of someone holding a sword would deter a malevolent intruder.

Creeping down the steps towards the front hall, Verona heard wood shattering and objects slamming, all from in the open doorway left of the stairs’ bottom – the study room. She thought she saw candle-light flickering inside. The front hall was slightly cool with the breeze entering through the open front door. Verona didn’t see the body in the shadows to her right. Covering her candle’s flame behind the sword’s flat side, Verona slowly crept to the bottom, then towards the door. She leaned her head far enough forward that one eye could see into the room, her breath stopping at the sight. There was a small fire on the study’s floor, from a stray candle touching a pile of papers. In its light, she saw two figures – one was her father, limp and shaking but forced to stand off the floor. The figure holding him was as black as a moonless night, hair tied in an eastern-looking bun, face buried in her father’s neck-shoulder area.

“What is this noise?!” Verona’s mind refused to respond for a moment, then its screaming got through to her body and she spun – her mother was descending the steps in her nightwear. She looked confused. “Verona?” Remembering the threat, Verona spun to face the study door – and stared into Count Dragulia’s largely-shadowed face, a foot from hers, smiling pleasantly despite the blood reflecting candlelight below his lip.

“Good evening, Verona,” he said charmingly, wiping the blood away with one hand. Verona stared in horror for one second. Then she turned to run upstairs – she froze, seeing the Count’s face looming over her mother’s shoulder on the steps, hands on her mother’s neck. He twisted her head, Verona hearing a sickening _crack_ just before her mother’s body fell, forcing Verona to stumble back two steps.

“You seem uneasy, my lady.” The Count’s voice was behind Verona’s back, making her spin – he was standing behind her again, almost like he hadn’t moved from there at all. Eyes remaining fixed on him, Verona slowly backed upstairs around her mother’s body, candle in one hand and sword in the other. Count Dragulia kept pace with every step, ice-like eyes boring. Realising he was unthreatened, Verona raised the sword and swung it with a shrill cry – the Count’s hand caught the blade, blood oozing out as he chuckled blackly. He tore the sword from Verona, then let it clatter to the stairs, wide eyes on her. Still backing upstairs, Verona grabbed the next thing that came to mind – a crucifix on the wall. The second she held it out, the Count grabbed it. The wood instantly sprouted flames, and the Count screamed a sound Verona thought only a monster directly from Hell could make.

“What’s happening?” Verona vaguely heard Rinaldo’s voice behind her, eyes remaining on the screaming Count initially. As the crucifix crumbled to ash, Verona turned and sprinted three-steps-at-a-time upstairs.

“Go, _RUN_!” she yelled, pushing Rinaldo upstairs in front of her, candle falling.

“What’s happening?” They ran to the third room down the corridor. Practically pushing Rinaldo inside, Verona shut the door behind herself, almost-immediately putting a wall-mounted crucifix on the door. Verona slowly backed into the moonlit room, eyes never leaving the closed door like the Count would break it down at any moment. She made the sign of the cross, whispering Latin prayers so quietly they were barely articulated breaths. Rinaldo abruptly screamed. Turning, Verona stared in horror at Raphael’s body, lying on the floor between the bed and window, head twisted unnaturally far. A loud bang made Rinaldo’s scream cut, brother and sister looking at the door – the crucifix on it swung left and right on its suspension point with the blow. Grabbing Rinaldo’s hand, Verona backed closer to the window as another bang followed. She repeated the sign of the cross in the pause that followed. After four seconds of silence, a shadow that hadn’t been there a second ago suddenly blocked half the moonlight, before the window shattered. Verona and Rinaldo staggered away, Rinaldo screaming as the Count climbed through the hole.

Rinaldo clung to Verona’s chemise while she wrapped her arms around him, staggering back towards the door. They both started hurriedly murmuring prayers. Count Dragulia growled, wincing like the sound were an assault to his ears, but advanced towards them. The moment Verona turned to run with Rinaldo, the Count tore Rinaldo from her grasp. Verona wheeled around, seeing Count Dragulia hold the screaming boy off the floor one-handed. Verona looked back at the door one second, then ran and grabbed the crucifix.

“Release him!” she shrieked furiously, holding the crucifix at arm’s length. The Count made an ungodly scream, irises glowing pale-blue, teeth changing. He backed away two steps. “ _Release hi_ -!” He lunged his head, burying his face in Rinaldo’s neck. The boy screamed, the sound dying in four seconds. Verona stared in utter horror, while Count Dragulia almost-instantly dropped the body. Before Verona could think to react, the Count whacked the crucifix out of her hands – hitting the skirting board, it glowed red before a lone flame appeared on its wood. The Count grabbed Verona’s neck before she could start praying. He leaned so close their noses could have touched.

“It is me, my dear,” Count Dragulia all but whispered, a pleasant smile spreading on his face. His grip was like stone, making Verona almost gag and gasp for air. She had the instinct to hit and kick at him, but didn’t think it would do her any good, and she felt like a bit of the fight had gone out of her. After a moment, the Count eased his grip.

“What _… are you_?!” Verona forced the grief-choked words out. Count Dragulia smiled charmingly.

“I have had many names over more than one lifetime,” the Count said, running his free hand through Verona’s flowing, untied hair. She closed her eyes, wanting to groan and cringe away from the abominable touch. “King of the Night, son of the Devil. Do you not see me?” He sounded imploring, and Verona opened her eyes. His voice dipped into a husky growl: “I am gifted with eternal life, feeding on the blood of others, but cursed to only walk strong in the night.” Verona’s eyes widened, recognising the characteristics of the vampire. Count Dragulia grinned and chuckled wickedly. The Count’s throat-grip eased, then disappeared, fingertips drifting downwards, nails gently grazing her skin, until they were just above her breasts. Verona slowly backed away, only getting two steps before his voice stilled her.

“Do not fear me, beautiful maiden,” Count Dragulia murmured huskily. He reached and stroked his fingers’ backs along Verona’s jawline, cool touch as soft as a feather. “I shall not hurt you.”

“What do you want of me?” Verona asked, trying and failing to keep the fear out of her voice. Withdrawing his fingers, Count Dragulia chuckled again, sounding almost mirthful.

“I have been alone for so long, watching a century pass me by while I remain constant, with no end to time’s infinite expanse in sight,” Count Dragulia said. “Not in a hundred years have I met someone who I would want to share this eternal existence with. Until now.” Verona’s eyes widened, remembering the stories that the undead’s victims became like them. “Does the prospect not tempt you?” Verona’s mind was lulled for one second, before her lifelong lessons about the life that awaited the faithful after death broke through the temptation. She turned and sprinted for the door, but didn’t get two steps before the Count grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

“You are strong, Verona,” he said. He pulled so suddenly she was all but thrown against his chest; he then seized her by either arm, but didn’t grip her tightly. “Strong _and beautiful_.” He ran two fingers upwards through her hair. Verona wanted to cringe away from the contact like it were corruption incarnate. “But it doesn’t matter whether or not you want this. My power has already taken root in you.” Verona’s eyes widened.

“What?!” she exclaimed, voice hoarse. The Count released her, and she immediately spun around, putting a foot between them. Count Dragulia raised an eyebrow like an enthusiastic tutor expecting an answer. Verona thought of her sickness, when it had started, and her dream of Count Dragulia the night before. Her hand went to the side of her neck where the two puncture-wounds were. “I am truly sorry I made our second meeting so displeasing by interfering with your supper. But I needed invitation to reach you, when you slept.” He leaned close, nose’s tip almost touching hers. “Yes, you will soon be like me. Being killed will only make that fate come to you sooner.” A long pause passed before Verona spoke again, tears stinging her eyes.

“Then why am I still not dead?” Verona asked, voice cracked.

“I wanted to tell you what your fate would be, before I made you mine,” Count Dragulia said, tone devoid of mockery. His fingers slowly went to her left cheek, caressing her face below her eye like it were the smoothest, most fragile thing in the world.

“Does it… matter that I do not want to be yours?” Verona asked, looking the Count in the eye. A pause followed.

“No,” the Count murmured matter-of-factly, face calm. “You will be my bride. Now and for all eternity.” Verona’s eyes widened as the Count’s face changed, a monstrous hissing-noise coming from him. Her mouth opened wide and she let the scream out in full as the black-clad figure advanced towards her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that’s Verona’s backstory. You might or might not have noticed, I wanted Dracula’s interactions with her to be a bit more emotionally-intense than with his other brides since she’d his first, and I wanted to use and stay true to the novelisation’s idea she’s his favourite.


	5. Velkan

**Transylvania, 1888**

Regaining consciousness, Velkan tried to gasp, water spraying out from his mouth. Remembering the werewolf attacking, he shot up into a sitting position, barely registering the river’s sound in his ears. His right hand shot out, looking for a dropped gun, but Velkan’s gun was nowhere on the pebbly river bank nor in its holster. After only a couple seconds searching, Velkan noticed the body lying across his legs, pinning him – a naked man with grey hair and the worn look of a peasant. The body from the waist down bobbed on the river’s surface, the currents trying to drag it downstream, though Velkan’s lower body was beached in shallow waters. The man’s brown eyes were open and dead below Velkan’s belly. With the body’s angle, Velkan saw the bullet-hole in its chest. He remembered firing at the werewolf, and before that; him and Anna travelling to a village thirty miles north of Vaseria looking for one of Dracula’s servants, barely slaughtering the witch coven who’d trapped the two of them. Though they hadn’t been quick enough to kill the witches before they could magically alert Dracula with one of their spells, and a werewolf had arrived at the village in less than a day.

Velkan put his hands on the bank to hold him up. He looked around, trying to make out where he was. Beyond the bank, steep wooden hills rising sixty feet bordered the river, with no sign of the steep gorge Velkan had fallen from. He wasn’t familiar with these parts, and had no idea how far downriver he could have been carried while unconscious. Velkan hissed in air slightly, mind registering slight pain in his back – a small injury behind his right shoulder. Had he felt with his hand, he would’ve found the small, open tear in his waistcoat and the shallow puncture in his skin underneath it. Velkan pushed the naked body off, letting it float downriver. Getting to his feet, he quickly looked among the river-bank for his gun. In a few seconds, he spotted a flash of chrome ten feet away and went to pick it up – his revolver. He opened the case, finding five bullets remained. Re-examining his surroundings, he looked at the hills and listened. It was quiet, but there was still distant birdsong, though Velkan couldn’t hear any sounds of a road or nearby settlement. A thin grey mist hung over the hills’ trees. It was day, but the smells and grey sky’s light told Velkan night was near. Any Transylvanian knew better than to be out in the wilds at night, so Velkan took one last quick look around, before returning his gun to its holster and running into the trees and uphill. Velkan didn’t know how he’d find Anna, but what he did know was he needed to find safe shelter, soon.

* * *

Velkan travelled a few miles, finding no road or farmland. Climbing a hill twice as high as the river’s slopes, he gained a view for almost a dozen miles around. The river wound in a semicircle from on one side of the hill he was on to the other side. The landscape was covered in trees with no fields, roads or villages breaking through. The land behind Velkan’s back was hilly woodland, while the outermost Carpathians rose in front of him. Velkan recognised the specific mountains, and knew he was twenty miles northwest of Vaseria. And he’d still have to cross into the mountains to reach the valley. He considered his options. If Anna thought he was still alive, she’d be searching for him right now, meaning she wouldn’t be at the same place he’d shot the werewolf, but Velkan was closer to the other village than to Vaseria. Additionally, night was closing in. So Velkan set off in a northeasterly direction. Besides, he couldn’t leave Anna on her own searching futilely for him.

Velkan walked for hours, thankful he hadn’t encountered any bears, wolves or lynxes from the mountains yet. Before the Carpathians, the forest floor was made of precipices that regularly sloped downwards and upwards, and the trees thinned and then thickened again. As the sky darkened, Velkan’s sense of urgency increased – he suspected he’d barely travelled seven miles. Thankfully, his eyesight remained sharp despite the mist and the light going. He and his family learned to be very in-tune with the sounds, temperature and air’s aromas to stand a chance fighting evil creatures, it was one of the reasons they were called Royalty of the Gypsies. He could feel the moisture on his skin and hear birds tweeting hundreds of yards away.

Velkan stopped, ears picking up the distant growling breath. He turned his head in the growling’s direction. He saw the bulky brown shape far away. Suddenly, the bear charged, making sticks and branches crunch loudly while it roared. Though slightly slowed since his fall, Velkan ran at a tree fast. He sprinted ten feet up its trunk, perching on a branch. Withdrawing his gun, he fired twice. One bullet went in the bear’s back near its hindquarters, the other went into its left foreleg; it roared with rage but didn’t stop. Knowing when the bear would be upon him, Velkan leapt from the branch in the opposite direction from the bear, one second before the bear scaled the trunk to the branch’s height. Landing in a crouch, Velkan didn’t remain that way for more than a second before getting up. Running faster than he’d ever run before – and he was a fast runner – the trees shot by around him in a blur. He looked behind his shoulder while running – the bear was taking longer than he’d thought it would to close, but was still managing it, being about twenty yards behind. Seeing a sudden fall in land ahead, Velkan pushed himself into a harder run, intending to make a sharp left-turn and let the bear fall. Then something slammed into his back, throwing him sideways – he hit a tree trunk so hard his ribs creaked. Slowly sliding down the bark, ringing filled Velkan’s ears momentarily, all other sound becoming distorted. Then a burning, primal rage swelled inside him, a desire to destroy this beast that had attacked him. Hearing the bear’s growl feet behind his head, Velkan’s eyes shot open, an inhuman-sounding growl escaping through his grit teeth.

Both hands grabbing bark above his head, Velkan threw himself upwards before the bear’s paw slashed the trunk. He shot fifteen feet away, before stopping himself by grabbing branches with either hand. Whipping his head with a growling noise, he looked down at the bear again, filled with hate. The bear, head craned, roared and started climbing – Velkan didn’t let it finish before leaping downwards, throwing his full body-weight at the bear. The strength in Velkan’s muscles was such that the bear was knocked clean off the trunk, hitting the earth with Velkan atop it. Roaring, Velkan raised a fist meant to smash at the bear’s eye socket – the roaring died as rational thought screamed in his mind, fist remaining raised. Looking at what he’d done, Velkan’s eyes were wide, horrified brain toiling over his superhuman feats. Roaring, the bear swiped at Velkan’s head – Velkan ducked just in time, before the bear swiped its other paw at his side, knocking him clean off. Hurtling several feet, then rolling down sloping earth, Velkan felt momentarily like a carriage had slammed into him fast. Then the boiling anger rose in him again. Hearing the bear charge, Velkan released all restraint. He rose to his feet inhumanly fast, leapt towards the bear twice as far as he’d normally be able to. When they collided, the bear’s momentum won out, but it was slowed. Still running, the bear didn’t have two seconds to try throwing Velkan off its head and neck, before he swung a fist which squashed its eyeball to gore. The bear screeched in pain, stopping and rising on its hind legs. Velkan leapt off, clinging to a nearby trunk like a squirrel, watching the bear stagger and bellow blindly. The iron smell of blood drove Velkan crazy. Staggering away from Velkan, the bear lowered on all fours with hindquarters facing the man, and bounded away. After only a couple seconds feeling the urge to pursue his challenger, Velkan’s rational thought began returning.

His limbs felt slightly soft. He detached himself from the tree trunk, gracefully returning to standing on earth. The whole world seemed unreal, dreamlike to him as he tried to deny what the things he’d done meant, though his mind had already worked out it was the only explanation. He’d been afflicted with the werewolf’s curse. Remembering the slight pain in his back, Velkan’s hands went behind it, finding the tiny tear in his clothing and feeling the bump of the wound underneath. Horror filled Velkan, and he momentarily couldn’t think straight. Of the many ways a Valerious could die, becoming a werewolf wasn’t favoured – losing one’s humanity in the build-up to the first full moon, and not dying but becoming one of Dracula’s puppets. Velkan looked back in the direction he’d run from – he remembered leaping off the first branch, and his gun falling away. He half-staggered, then half-ran back in the direction he’d come from, looking among the ground’s dead leaves. He searched for some minutes with increasing urgency, but found nothing.

“No,” Velkan murmured. “ _NO_!” He’d never yelled so loudly when in the wilderness, and immediately quietened when some birds and distant beasts cried in response. It might’ve just been him, but he thought he could hear even further away than was normal, even for him. Again aware of the aromas and the woods getting dimmer, Velkan reconsidered his options – he couldn’t be allowed to live, especially since werewolves were among Dracula’s most dangerous servants. It occurred to him he could allow a beast to come along and kill him, but he didn’t know if anything besides silver would kill him while he was still a man. He thought if he could find his way back to the village – or a road – he could have someone kill him with silver. Hearing something growl far away, it occurred to Velkan any monsters that found him could take him to Dracula with certainty. His mind set, he forced himself to his feet and continued walking through the trees and dark-grey gloom.

* * *

Though Velkan jogged fast, he resisted the bestial tingle urging him to break out into a full-blown run – he knew he’d abandon all reason again if that happened. The sky continued darkening – it was virtually dusk now.

Velkan ran up a slope in the land, but stopped when a grey wolf crossed horizontally in front of him. Stopping, it growled and bared its teeth, green eyes boring Velkan. Four more wolves in varying sizes followed and passed the first, some of them also looking and growling at Velkan, before the first wolf followed at their tail. Velkan stared after them before continuing on his way. He thought the air seemed off, too cold and still, before he reached the top of the slope. Past the slope’s top, the land sloped downwards again into a shallow valley. In the valley’s stream, two women were sitting half-submerged, black hair falling over their backs mostly, though Velkan still saw ice-blue skin. His breathing slowed. _Ielele_.

The two women slowly turned as though sensing his gaze. They had finely-curved women’s faces, devoid of feeling like perfectly-carved statues, and pure-black eyes. White rags on their arms, shoulders and waist barely covered their modesty. They looked straight at Velkan. A second passed. Then the ielele were moving from the stream towards Velkan with speed like passing clouds’ shadows, two pale-blue blurs which left blackened trails of earth and shrubs behind them. Velkan turned to run, a second before an ielele appeared in front of his face, resuming its non-blurred form. It faced him for one second, before its eyes became giant, jagged black pits and its mouth a maw; unleashing a horrible wail that filled Velkan’s ears, made him feel like they were bleeding. Velkan cried out a second, then somersaulted sideways – getting trapped between two ielele was certain death. He ran full speed, trying desperately to curve back into his intended route rather than run in the wrong direction. He was aware of the werewolf’s power screaming as his blood sang, but he fought it down. Velkan could sense the ielele following by the air’s unnatural vibrations and the cold following him.

About seven seconds later, Velkan was vaguely aware of the ielele’s vibrations stopping behind him, but didn’t wonder why. Seeing the ground suddenly end ahead, Velkan ran, and leapt over the gorge, towards the opposite precipice. His body above the waist slammed into the ground above the edge, then began sliding away. One hand’s fingertips dug into the earth, making tiny trenches, before Velkan could wholly disappear into the gorge. Hearing gurgling sounds, Velkan looked down. There was a camp at the gorge’s bottom, a limbless animal skeleton hanging in a hang rope-like contraption over a burnt-out campfire. Directly below Velkan’s boots, two Diwergi clothed in scarves and metal plates emerged from a cave mouth in the gorge’s side. Craning their scarf-covered heads, they screeched in fury when their large, milky eyes saw Velkan, pointing the tools they’d been holding. Velkan let go of the edge, legs straight – his soles hit a Diwerger’s head, crushing its spine. He looked at the other Diwerger, the pint-size creature charging and swinging its tool. Velkan raised an arm and the tool hit it, making bone crack. He screamed, pain exploding in his arm. The Diwerger swung again, but Velkan caught the tool with his other hand. Aware of the beast urging him to kill before restraining it, Velkan kicked the Diwerger in the chest, sending it reeling backwards. It snarled and ran back into the cave mouth. Velkan turned to run the opposite way up the gorge. He didn’t make it ten yards before something pierced his leg and agony like Hell suddenly burned through it, making him collapse to his knees and scream.

Looking at his leg, Velkan saw the large metal dart inside it. The screw in the dart was slowly turning, burrowing into his flesh, while three needle-like tripod legs were slowly forcing the wound open wider. Velkan screamed against the pain again. Not a second later, he grabbed the dart and tore it out. He heard the whistle of another dart firing, and whipped round before it could hit. The lust for breaking seeping in behind his fury, Velkan ran full-speed at the Diwerger. He leapt just as the Diwerger fired its crossbow-weapon again, and drove his fist at its forehead. The whole forehead caved, dark fluid spraying out. Crying out, the Diwerger staggered backwards several steps before falling to the ground, its rabid snarling slowly dying.

Velkan stared wide-eyed for a moment, sense returning. Then he picked up the first killed Diwerger’s rusted spanner, ran at the remaining Diwerger and swung the tool – the head went into the Diwerger’s skull with a loud crunch, several more crunches following as Velkan forced the head in deeper to be sure. When the Diwerger was dead, Velkan let go and stepped back. _Two_ kinds of monster had seen him alive – one of them having seen him use the werewolf’s power. Dracula could see through some of his servants’ eyes, and Velkan didn’t know if that included the Diwergi, or if it included him while he was infected with the werewolf curse. He turned and rushed fast down the gorge, looking for a suitable part of the wall for climbing up.

* * *

Within an hour, the sky became near-black and snow started falling. Seeing surprisingly well through the dark, Velkan ran fast, avoiding stepping on fallen wood that might give him away. He felt shifts in the air currents indicating something flying, but there were only trees and black sky when he looked up. He’d experienced this phenomenon before – vampires were stalking him. Feeling the werewolf pulsing under his skin with excitement, Velkan pushed into a full-blown run, though his hope of escaping now was minimal.

Thinking he heard a distant laugh, Velkan looked sideways – he thought he saw a figure among the trees, so far away he could only make out its glowing eyes through the snowfall. It was there a second, before a tree passed in Velkan’s line of sight and it was gone. Velkan hadn’t smelled anything, nor sensed any shift at all – which indicated undead. A high laugh, sounding like only a harpy of Hell could make it, made Velkan look up; he saw nothing among the trees’ gnarled branches. The ripple of a large creature’s flight, near ground-level, made Velkan look right – nothing was visible, again. He heard a faint shriek on his left – he saw two figures in the trees, with glowing yellow eyes and blue eyes respectively. Ahead of Velkan, a thick opening between two trees grew closer. Hearing that phantom-shriek again behind him, Velkan looked over his shoulder, seeing the pink-eyed grinning woman’s form shrinking behind him.

Velkan burst through the trees’ opening – and barely stopped himself short of a narrow but deep gorge’s edge. A hand suddenly seized his waistcoat’s back and threw him back into the trees with tremendous strength. Crying out, Velkan saw Verona standing by the gorge’s edge, growing further away in front of him, before his back hit a tree trunk hard. He bounced off, belly catching on a branch, then he landed in a crouch on the forest floor. Velkan groaned for less than two seconds, before a noose suddenly wrapped around his neck, choking him. Yanked to the forest floor, Velkan grabbed and fought the string-thin yet steel-strong noose furiously. He heard activity stirring all around him in the shrubbery, hearing Diwergi’s gurgling voices and their small bodies’ movements. Out of his eye’s corner, he even saw some of them – all dressed in full clothing and goggles – emerging from the shrubbery, several wielding noose-ended poles. A second noose wrapped around Velkan’s wrist, pulling his arm away from his neck, then more nooses wrapped around his ankle and other wrist. The beast roared furiously inside Velkan at being bound. In his panic, Velkan didn’t repress it, raging and roaring inhumanly against the nooses pulling his limbs in different directions. He was enraged at the Diwergi and felt the beast’s want to tear and kill them, to taste their blood. A soft chuckle got through to Velkan’s mind, making him roll his eyes to look above his head. A beautiful woman wearing rich materials stepped towards him, the Diwergi clearing her path. She wore white baggy pants and a brassiere, leaving much of her flesh above the waist exposed, white-and-gold materials decorated with gold beads flowing past her arms and shoulders. _Marishka_. The other brides, who wore more dress-like gowns with bright-green and -pink colours respectively, closed in on different sides, the three forming a circle around Velkan’s head. Velkan’s eyes widened, then the beast made him growl.

“Such a _disobedient_ little pup,” Marishka purred darkly.

“Obviously in need of discipline,” Verona murmured. Aleera, the red-haired bride with the bright-pink gown, grinned, eyes turning pink, a feral growl escaping her throat as her white fangs lengthened. Crouching slightly, Marishka _tsk-tsk_ ’d and grinned, looking almost sweet. Then, in a flash of movement, Aleera raised her heel and brought it down on Velkan’s face.

* * *

_Velkan watched, the thirteen-year-old boy’s arms folded in front of his hunting coat, one boot’s heel on the wall behind him. The blindfolded younger girl in hunting breeches, corset and spencer stood, poised with her training singlestick raised. Velkan made a high-pitched whistling sound. The dog ran forward. Anna barely turned her head, then ran left, putting her stick on her belt, and leapt. She grabbed the rope’s end five feet off the floor, scaling it while the dog jumped and barked below. Stopping some way up, her foot found the square platform protruding on the upper-wall, and she got on. She barely stopped to keep her balance, when the platform began falling like a trapdoor on a hinge – she leapt to the next one along, then along to the next one as the previous platform collapsed. After the fourth platform fell, Anna leapt into the air, grabbing the rope that was diagonally hanging from the ceiling. The rope’s end attached to the wall came loose and Anna swung forward. Reaching out a hand, she grabbed and switched to the next rope, scaling down it. Face serious, Velkan pulled the lever beside him. The giant bag on a rope swung towards Anna. She turned her head a second before it slammed into her, making her cry out. She fell five feet before re-seizing the rope. She resumed climbing down, boots hitting the floor._

_Velkan whistled, prompting the dog to turn and scarper. Raising his singlestick, Velkan ran straight towards Anna. She was still for less than a full second before turning heel, running to another rope and hurriedly climbing it. Sheathing his stick, Velkan climbed after her, the rope swaying with both their weight. When his hair was level with Anna’s knees, Velkan removed his stick. Anna raised a leg and kicked - Velkan barely dodged. Then Anna raised her legs and folded them, heels joined with the rope in-between. Velkan climbed higher to reach her. Before he’d raised his singlestick, Anna grabbed his other hand and tore it loose, making him fall six feet. He cried out briefly, before hitting the floor. On the floor he wheezed for two seconds, before performing a kip-up. Sprinting to another wall, Velkan pulled another lever. Barrels in the walls started firing spheres in beelines. Anna climbed seemingly unheeded, if anything going faster. A ball missed her by an inch a few times, before she reached a skirting board close to the ceiling. She leapt onto the board’s ledge, and started scaling it precariously. Velkan pulled another lever. A large wooden effigy, shaped like a person with wings, shot forward, attached to a wheel on rope. Turning her head, Anna waited four seconds. Then she thrust her singlestick, hitting the bat-effigy’s torso, and spun a split-second before the effigy hit the wall where she’d just been. With a spring in her feet, she leapt off the wall, somersaulted, and landed in a crouching position. Smiling, Velkan began marching towards her._

_“You did well-” Anna rose and spun when Velkan spoke, stick raised. Velkan immediately paused, impressed. “Anna – it’s alright, you’ve finished.” Anna’s blindfolded face looks surprised, but she still didn’t lower her guard. “This isn’t a test, I promise.” He slowly reached towards her face. “You know I_ never _hurt you with my hands.” Velkan slowly clasped the blindfold, then lifted it. Seeing him with her bright eyes, Anna grinned, looking proud and pleased at once. Velkan himself smiled proudly. “I told Father you could carry on the family quest.” Smile turning slightly mischievous, he added: “After trying the training hall three times.” Anna’s smile instantly thinned and she hit her stick on Velkan’s arm. Velkan barely flinched, hard as the blow had been, and smiled mischievously – Anna returned the smile after a moment. Anna walked past him and he turned his head, watching her leave._

* * *

“Anna…” Velkan slowly came to. Sound was unclear, and all he saw were blurred dark colours. His back was on a rough, uneven surface, and he got the sensation he was moving. He started lifting his head, and a sharp jab in his side sent an unpleasant sensation through his body, making him hurt and shudder. When it ceased after several seconds, foam was leaking between Velkan’s lips. He got three seconds’ reprieve before the sting reoccurred in his other side, making him grit his teeth and groan. The memory’s pleasantness fully evaporated, leaving him with suffering. Looking around, Velkan saw he was strapped to a wooden rack on wheels, trundling up a wooded slope. His waistcoat and shirt were unbuttoned, leaving the front of his chest exposed. Snow was barely falling, and the ground was a mix of white and earthy-dark. About fifteen Diwergi were around Velkan – some leading, some pushing or pulling the wagon, a few standing on the wagon’s sides with long-poled prods. A Diwerger poked Velkan’s skin with its prod, stinging him again.

After six or seven prods over three minutes, Velkan viciously fought against his bonds, unleashing a werewolf’s roar. The Diwergi weren’t hindered. When the party left the trees, Velkan saw the mountain they were on was high, several surrounding peaks level with the height they were at. The party advanced to and began entering a cave mouth. Velkan remembered reading about two Valerious who’d entered Diwerger tunnels – the Diwergi were said to have carved tunnels through the entire Carpathian range – hoping to find Dracula’s lair; what remains the Diwergi had sent back had discouraged other Valerious from retrying this. Velkan’s legs in front of him were swallowed by the cave, then his torso, then he was in total darkness. The Diwergi lit torches, enabling Velkan to see – the tunnel was circularly cut, small and cramped with uneven surfaces. In the tunnel space, lit only by the yellow flame-light which turned the rocky walls brownish shades before the tunnel’s length disappeared into blackness, Velkan felt like he were being taken into Hell.

Velkan had no idea how much time passed, during which he was constantly prodded. For all he knew, it could’ve been ten minutes, two days, or months. Despite the tunnels’ freezing cold, Velkan’s shocked body felt on-fire. Hearing wind howling and seeing new light ahead, Velkan strained his neck to look – the party was at an exit. He was prodded again and grunted, but returned his eyes to the exit, eyes widening in horror as the blue light grew closer. The sky was heavy with impenetrable clouds, their blue colour like a moonlit night, Velkan’s only clue to whether it was night or day. One of the first things Velkan saw was the mountain-sized monstrosity, rising many hundreds of feet above him. It looked black, three huge towers making up the structure atop the rocky base. Snow fell and whirled amid the howling winds. Snow-covered mountains enclosed the monstrous mountain-structure on all sides, but gave it a vast space inside their wall, seemingly almost reverently.

The party went down a narrow path carved in the mountains’ sides – it was too narrow for any Diwergi to walk abreast of the rack, so Velkan had a reprieve from the prods. Then the cold started reaching him. Shuddering, Velkan felt like the werewolf curse were a thing burning and swelling inside him, sweat breaking through his skin despite the cold. He involuntarily grunted, every few grunts sounding like a werewolf’s snarl. After what felt like a couple hours, the party reached a mile-long bridge to the mountain-fortress’s base and crossed, a mouth in the rock waiting at the end. As the rack entered, Velkan’s teeth were grit and lips peeled back, wolfish growls and groans escaping him. Velkan passed through a vast cave, hundreds of stalactites hanging above, then the party came out into a hall that could only have been made for a giant. It was barely less cold than outside. Tiny-seeming torches were lit on monstrous columns, providing light to see. Everything was dull-grey, but the ceiling and walls were well-carved with intricate, discomforting patterns. If the werewolf curse had felt swollen outside the castle, now Velkan felt like he’d burst from it, a want for blood and destruction burning his insides.

A dark laugh echoed in the hall, making the Diwergi halt. It was made by a man’s voice, one Velkan recognised and hated deeply – and on a level he’d never admit to, feared. Velkan saw a bat-like large shadow, flying unnaturally-fast across walls and columns’ surfaces, present for less than two seconds.

“Welcome, _Prince Velkan_!” Count Dracula’s voice boomed – it first sounded welcoming, then said Velkan’s title mockingly. Velkan couldn’t stop his chest heaving, feeling like he were about to explode with the curse’s urges to tear, kill, dismember and drink blood. He let out a scream that felt, going through his throat, like it could break glass half a mile away. Velkan slammed the back of his head into the rack, screaming voice deepening. He felt something on his face tearing apart like dead skin, skull lengthening. The _tearing something_ began sloughing off the rest of Velkan’s body, hair sprouting through the new skin underneath. He felt cramps more awful than any growing pains as his bones changed shape and realigned, muscles swelling and popping massively. In several seconds, Velkan’s screaming turned wholly to roaring, his face forming into a wolfish muzzle, his body covered in brown fur under his torn clothing. Velkan’s thoughts and memories sank into darkness, like a soul drowning in a dark abyss. Snarling and roaring, the werewolf fought to get its taloned hands free of their restraints, wanting to tear apart the weakling creatures around it. The man who part of the beast recognised as Master laughed – the beast listened with one ear, struggles slightly lessening.

“I’m aware that my brides think you are in need of discipline,” Dracula said darkly.

* * *

_“Father, I am ready!” the frizzy-haired girl insisted vehemently. Loading silver bullets into his revolver, the teenaged boy watched on, feeling a twang of sympathy for his sister._

_“There is a great difference between training, and hunting two werewolves, Anna,” the long-haired, eyepatch-wearing man said while removing a flintlock from the armoury’s set. Boris Valerious’ voice was gentle and smooth, sounding almost like that of a singer._

_“I have trained daily for_ months _, just like Velkan has,” Anna insisted._

 _“Velkan has had more experience in the field than you have,” their father replied. “My answer remains the same Anna –_ no _.” Velkan saw Anna lower her eyes, almost hang her head even. Neither of them dared directly defy their father, he was possibly the only person Velkan knew Anna would ever stand down to – and even then, just barely. The flame-lit armoury became relatively quiet, save for the sounds of Velkan loading his revolver and Father slotting weapons into their holsters and places on his person. After only a couple seconds, Father turned his head to Anna, moustached face soft. He stepped towards her, putting a strong-looking yet gentle hand on her shoulder – it made Anna look directly into his face. “Be patient, Anna,” Father said softly. “I promise you, when you are ready I will let you fight with me and your brother. But for now, please, do this for me.” A silent pause passed, Anna’s eyes lowering to the floor in relent – which was something Velkan rarely saw happen when Anna argued with someone. Father’s moustache rose slightly to indicate he was smiling thankfully. Then he turned and marched away from Anna in Velkan’s direction, broadsword at his side inside his fur-lined overcoat. When he passed towards the armoury’s exit, Velkan shot Anna a sympathetic look – she raised her head, and he saw the sour dismay in her eyes. Not two seconds later, Velkan turned and broke eye contact, following Father._

* * *

_Velkan and Father rode towards the thick woods that grew down the valley, villagers and mountain gypsies on horseback joining up with their party the closer they got – it was a larger number than was usual, seeing as they knew from the attacks on the village’s eastern border that there were two werewolves to be hunted. The plan was the usual, with a slight tweak – one of them would act as bait to draw the werewolves out, then the others would emerge from cover and surprise-attack; occupying the beasts by firing bullets and springing multiple traps, while Velkan and Boris would divide and conquer, finishing either werewolf off using silver weapons. It was near-dusk when the party entered the woodlands. They began hiding bear-traps under the leaves littering the ground, and hanging more bear-traps on ropes from the tree-branches, ready to drop and snap shut on the werewolves’ bones. Velkan was tied with rope to a tree trunk, though the bindings were loose enough that he’d be able to throw them off quickly once the werewolves came – he knew his father would’ve preferred to be the bait himself, but facts were Velkan was quicker and more agile._

_Velkan patiently waited for about an hour, twilight turning the woodland’s gloom dark-blue. The party were silently nestled among brushes and foliage, eyes slowly scanning around, ears alert for the slightest shift in sound such as evening birds going silent. Velkan’s ears practically pricked up – almost indiscernible, there was the slightest growl on his left, behind his turned head. Velkan flexed his hands’ muscles slightly, wanting them relaxed if he was to escape with his life. At the very same time, the rest of the forest became as silent as the true dead, like they themselves hadn’t noticed the predator in their midst. Velkan heard the slightest scratching-sound, of leaves delicately brushing his stalker as it stealthily moved. By the sound, Velkan guessed the werewolf was about twenty-five feet away from him. He turned his head slightly towards his left, but barely enough to look out of one eye’s corner, scanning the overhead branches and sloping land, searching for any sign of the other werewolf. Velkan heard the soft, rhythmic hiss of animal-nostrils inhaling in two intervals. Then the werewolf’s growl rose slightly, and the sound of leaves brushing started trailing sideways, in the direction Velkan’s chest was facing. Velkan barely had the chance to turn his head before, in front of his chest, he heard another werewolf’s loud growl further away, followed by two pistol-shots. His mind was momentarily stunned, re-reading what he’d heard before confirming the entire party had been present here at the ambush site. Then he heard a sight cry in the pistol-shots’ direction – a familiar young girl’s cry._

_“_ Anna _!” Velkan hissed, horrified. “_ IT’S ANNA _!” he yelled at the top of his voice, looking at the shrubbery. Less than two seconds passed before shots started firing from the shrubbery at the first werewolf, Velkan’s pistol-wielding father rising from his hiding place. The werewolf growled loudly, silhouette through the leaves and branches thrashing, but the sound almost mattered less to Velkan than two more pistol-shots being heard ahead of him. He was already throwing his bindings off. Briefly glancing left as the werewolf growled again, he saw its silhouette, sprinting on two legs in a blur, towards where the noise had come from. Velkan was crossing fifteen feet of earth in three seconds, throwing his coat off to leave him clad only in his waistcoat and pantaloons, and he drew a pistol from his belt in half that time. The land in front of him sloped upwards, but that only pushed him to work his legs even harder, hearing two more pistol-shots go off. Less than four seconds later, Velkan heard another shot mixed with werewolves’ snarling – it was closer than when he’d been tied to the tree. He heard that familiar voice outright scream for a moment. Velkan burst through the shrubs into the small clearing. He saw his sister on her belly, being dragged along the leaf-littered ground towards the shrubbery across the clearing. An unusually-small, brown-furred werewolf was crouched beside her, baring its huge teeth as it menaced her, while a larger silhouette loomed through the shrubbery behind Anna. Velkan aimed his pistol. Roaring, the concealed werewolf suddenly leapt six feet onto a tree’s lower branch, yellow eyes glaring menacingly at Velkan; Anna cried out as she was suspended in the air, held by her by the ankle. The smaller werewolf turned and snarled at Velkan. He adjusted his aim and fired. The werewolf leapt into the air a split-second before the bullet would have penetrated it, huge-fanged maw wide and clawed hands brandished, clawed feet’s pads facing Velkan’s head._

BLAM-BLAM!

_The gypsies and villagers ran forward, firing – the werewolf screeched and lost focus, Velkan sidestepping a split-second before it crashed to earth. He fired a bullet from his gun at the downed form, but didn’t stop for half-a-second before looking back at the trees. The other werewolf turned its back and leaped. Velkan fired another bullet, just as the werewolf’s head and pointed ears disappeared below the shrubbery._

_“FATHER!” Velkan yelled – the man was already running ahead, passing Velkan, who immediately followed at his tail while a mob formed around the small werewolf. Hearts pounding, father and son heard snarling as they sprinted through the shrubbery, then an agonised beastly screech. They barely stopped themselves short of the steep fall’s precipice, looking down. They saw Anna twenty feet away, backing away on her hands and rear – five feet from her, the werewolf was groaning, one clawed hand by its head, a blade’s handle protruding from one eye socket. It suddenly leapt straight at Anna, claws brandished. She swung another knife with a grunt, in the same spit-second Velkan and Father fired their weapons into the beast’s back. The beast’s head collided with a tree trunk, above Anna’s head, before collapsing to the earth beside her. Velkan and his father rushed down the land-slope. Velkan registered the werewolf was slowly getting itself back up, growling, in about the same second Anna drove her bright-chrome blade into its neck with a loud yell. The creature gave a growling moan, then collapsed back to the earth._

_“Anna, are you alright?!” Father exclaimed, reaching the girl just before Velkan. He cupped her face in both his gloved hands, and she didn’t immediately respond, distant-seeming eyes on the werewolf’s corpse that had just started regaining its human form. Slowing with the danger having passed, Velkan half-skidded into a crouch beside Father, looking his child sister over – her face was bruised, and deep-looking claw-marks had been raked through one thigh._

_“Were you bitten?” Velkan asked urgently, barely registering the sound of the party descending the slope behind him. Anna’s eyes connected with his, and she shook her head firmly. A pause passed before Velkan grabbed her head and pulled her into an embrace, sighing in relief._

_Three minutes later, the Valerious and the party were hurriedly mounting their horses, wanting to clear the woods immediately with night upon them. Father helped Anna onto Velkan’s horse behind his back, and she didn’t object – she’d been dead-silent since killing the werewolf. While their father rushed to his own horse, Velkan couldn’t stop himself looking back at Anna, re-examining the deep scratch on her thigh. Her first battle-scar. He reached a hand over his shoulder and shook her shoulder gently – she looked up at him._

_It wouldn’t be until after they were home safe he would tell her from the bottom of his heart, “You did well.”_

* * *

The man sat on the platform, surrounded by walls on only two sides, linked to the walls by a metal collar with chains. After his initial arrival at the castle, Velkan hadn’t stayed a werewolf for long before changing back, but he still felt the werewolf curse’s power in him strongly. He saw the vampires come and go moderately frequently. Dracula and Verona paid him next to no attention, but Aleera and Marishka were happy to take time taunting him – grinning at him like one might at a pet, saying, _Poor, poor hurt thing._ Or, _Is the pup happy or sad?_ They also enjoyed running their hands through his now-dirty hair like petting a dog. Velkan usually tried to look anywhere else and avoid responding, except for twice when he’d tried fighting his leash to reach them. Both times, they’d backhanded him to the wall hard enough for him to taste blood. Velkan could hardly remember a time when he hadn’t constantly felt pain. When he wasn’t watching vampires or Diwergi pass, he was often tortured by a squat, stringy-haired man with beady eyes – Igor, he called himself. Igor was particularly fond of using an electric prod on Velkan, grinning hideously. Compared to the Diwergi’s prods, Igor’s left burning pain in Velkan’s insides for some time, if he didn’t transform from the pain and rage. A werewolf transforming as many times as Velkan had must’ve been unprecedented, as it was rare for a bitten person to fully turn into a werewolf before their first full moon.

Velkan remembered the ninth time Igor had come. He’d first heard the prod crackling as it touched the nearby curtains. Igor had stood in front of Velkan, making a groaning sound in his throat, then he’d plunged the prod at a gap in Velkan’s tattered shirt. Velkan had yelled, involuntarily jumping when shocked. Igor had paused one second before prodding again.

“Why are you doing this?” Velkan had growled during a slightly longer-than-usual pause between jabs.

“It’s what I do,” Igor had replied bluntly, before jabbing again.

“ _Why_ is it what you do?!” Velkan had groaned after the initial shock had passed. Igor had paused momentarily, and Velkan had gotten the impression he hadn’t liked being asked that. When the moment had passed, Igor had prodded particularly-hard, grunting.

When Velkan had had episodes of half-asleep stupor or passed out from being tortured, he’d glimpsed things – blurred images, impressions of thoughts and meanings – he’d thought weren’t made by his mind. They’d come involuntarily, and most of these things had seemed or felt excessively indulgent, or carried strong feelings of wrath and hate. After some time, Velkan had pieced together he was looking into Dracula’s mind, just as Dracula could see through his servants’. Velkan had thought about trying to look deeper to discover Dracula’s secrets – hoping they might give him the chance to escape, or even kill Dracula before the werewolf curse consumed him. He’d plunged towards the mental impressions while half-asleep – the memories and thoughts had become slightly clearer, but they’d initially moved slightly further away the closer Velkan had gotten. Though Velkan had eventually reached the thoughts, worming his way between the outermost thoughts to those deeper inside. Memories and sensations had assaulted Velkan’s mind almost too fast for him to understand – initially Dracula’s passing thoughts, then Velkan had encountered his many deeper thoughts, which all oriented towards some specific goal that wasn’t clear to Velkan. Velkan had tried focusing his own thoughts on what he was after, hoping it would somehow give him Dracula’s thoughts he sought: _Kill Dracula_. Several images had rushed by, not all of them understandable. _Werewolf. Teeth. Silver liquid. Clear liquid. Metal needle and tube._ Then all the thoughts had vanished, leaving Velkan in a dreamless limbo moments before he’d woken up. He’d toiled over the images for hours, hoping to God they’d meant anything, before he came to a very-meaningful conclusion.

The huge bat-shadow flew over the wall behind Velkan, making the dirty-skinned man look up. On the curtain nearest him, the shadow flew to the floor and silently shifted in shape. The now man-shaped shadow stalked sideways, vanishing past the curtain’s edge. A man with all-black clothing and dark hair in a ponytail stepped out, hands behind his back. Count Dracula’s mouth was a straight line and his face completely calm. The look he gave Velkan was ice-cold.

“I give you hospitality, and while you are in my home, you look through private drawers that aren’t meant to be looked through,” the Count said, voice cold with a pit-black undertone. Velkan looked anywhere but at the Count’s eyes, glaring defiantly. The Count approached, footsteps echoing, until he was so close he could’ve kicked out at Velkan. “Which I take it means, _you’re looking for answers to questions you don’t want to ask_.” When Velkan didn’t reply after two seconds, Dracula said: “ _So_ , you’ve seen what my secret is.”

“Werewolf venom,” Velkan growled, glaring defiantly into Dracula’s face. “It can kill you.” A pause passed, Dracula’s face remaining unreadable with eyebrows raised.

“Are you going to kill me, _my attack-dog_?” Dracula murmured the last part hoarsely, voice barely above a whisper. Velkan lunged as fast as he could, momentarily releasing all restraint – Dracula sent him to the floor with a stroke of his hand. Velkan tasted blood in his mouth.

“There is more,” Velkan practically groaned after a few seconds. “You have a cure for the curse of the werewolf.”

“I do,” Dracula said almost-nonchalantly. “I used to keep it on my person always, but when four-hundred years have passed you by and no-one has matched you, you tire of the habit.” Dracula turned on his heel, hands behind his back. “Once, there were more than a hundred werewolves in this part of the world. Thanks to your family, now there are almost none left.” Velkan, who hadn’t moved since being struck, looked at Dracula’s back.

“Is that why I’m being kept alive?” Velkan growled loathingly. “To spread the curse of the werewolf again?”

“A tempting idea; werewolves were always among my favourite creatures,” Dracula murmured like he hadn’t considered it. He turned back. “But that was not my intention when the Diwergi brought you here.” Speaking of the Diwergi reminded Velkan of something else.

“How… _may I ask_ -” He snarled those three words with the slightest mocking undertone. “-do the Diwergi know where your lair is?” Velkan momentarily thought he saw something terrible burning in Dracula’s eyes, giving him the urge to cringe away. Then it vanished.

“You may ask,” Dracula said. “They are a subterranean people who have long slept under the Mountains. They sensed me coming to power and came to my service.” A cold smile spread on Dracula’s face as he added, seemingly lost in his musings, “They’ve taken a liking to the current age’s technology.” Mood suddenly shifting, Dracula said: “Are you going to keep asking me questions about how your family can kill me?” Velkan glared with a mix of defiance and hopelessness at the Count.

“I’ll return to my earlier question: why am I here?” Velkan growled.

“A Valerious bitten by a werewolf,” Dracula said, pacing back-and-forth, looking delighted. “One of Valerious the Elder’s noble descendants turned into the monster he hunts. The son of the house sworn to vanquish me turned into my attack-dog.” Dracula chuckled, grinning wickedly at Velkan. “What would your father and mother say?”

Velkan lunged with a yell, chains stopping his face a foot from Dracula’s, baring his teeth. Dracula looked nonchalant verging on pleased. The werewolf curse wasn’t stirring strongly in Velkan right now, he suspected in spite of the fact this was its Master.

“You don’t need to worry for your sister’s wellbeing, you’re unlikely to see her alive again,” Dracula said, turning and walking away from Velkan.

“What are you going to do?!” Velkan shouted, fighting the chains. Dracula stopped.

“You’re _reasonably smart_ , Prince Velkan,” he said patronisingly. “You tell me.”

“You will not have her, Count!” Velkan snarled, fighting to get further than his chains allowed.

“We shall see.” Dracula turned and looked back at Velkan, face as dark as night. “I have plans afoot which I will not allow any hindrances to interfere with, including Anna Valerious. Every obstacle will either fall or bend to my will – just as you shall soon enough.” Dracula turned his back on Velkan again. “There’s no need to worry about saving your strength. You will have plenty when the moon is next full.” Velkan resumed fighting the chains.

“You will not touch my sister!” Velkan snarled through his teeth. “ _I will kill you myself first!_ ” Dracula nonchalantly raised a hand, making the thumb and fingers snap together and apart like a duck’s beak. Then he abruptly clenched his hand, and Velkan had an odd squeezing sensation inside him. Suddenly, he felt the werewolf curse rapidly swelling, the beast’s bloodthirsty howl spreading through his insides. Jaw rigid, Velkan was aware of his muscles tearing and expanding. A strangled yell escaped through his teeth. Then his mouth opened, unleashing bestial roars. Velkan frantically tore at his skin, ripping it away in sloughs as the second skin broke through underneath and sprouted hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you have probably noticed this chapter incorporates a new take on a scene from the Van Helsing novelisation.


	6. Igor

**Germany, 1820**

“Igor!” the silver-haired German man in grey waistcoat barked.

“Yes, Dr. Waldman!” The man across the attic space wheeled around from his table, speaking with a thick Eastern European accent. He had a large forehead, slightly pointed chin, and thin, orange, chin-length hair. He wore a deep reddish-brown coat and beige breeches.

“How fares the work with the lightning rod?” Dr. Waldman asked.

“The rod is in place, Doctor; now I must ensure the wires are correctly attached to the chemicals,” Igor explained calmly. He half-turned back to his table, tweaking cables that ran between poles and liquid-filled beakers’ tops.

“Good,” Dr. Waldman murmured. He looked at the dead cat on the table behind him, two cables running through the beakers into it. “Is the storm nearly upon us?” Blue light immediately flashed outside the window, illuminating the lightning rod’s outline and the attic-based laboratory’s corners.

“Soon, it will be,” Igor murmured, full lips pulled into a grin that was almost sneer-like. He looked out at the dark sky.

“We’ve had three near-successes which only repeated Luigi Galvani and his nephew’s results with electricity,” Waldman murmured, stopping the pace he’d entered and placing both hands on a chair he’d walked behind. “And summer will soon pass. Let us hope the latest formula is the right one, as I should hate to see our benefactor disappointed.” Igor glanced at the doctor. Ten minutes passed, then twenty – three flashes of lightning occurred, without a strike.

“Shall I bring tea?” Igor asked Dr. Waldman after twenty-two minutes.

“Best not, it could-” A particularly-bright flash erupted, thunderclap following less than a second after. Lightning arced from the rod through the cables, half the beakers exploding. The cat’s head jerked, its legs shuddered. After four seconds, the lightning’s illumination vanished and the cat’s body flopped. Thunder rumbled far away outside. Igor and Waldman waited with baited breaths for more lightning, but when the sky started brightening after three minutes, Waldman looked towards the floor. He turned and leaned forward over the cat’s table, hands on either edge.

“I will get the tea,” Igor said, recognising the doctor’s disappointment. It still slightly surprised Igor sometimes how well he knew Dr. Waldman, making him think how much he could’ve gained with this knowledge of a person had he had more time and patience years ago.

* * *

_Lying against the building wall near the street corner, Igor smelled blood mixed with horse droppings. This wasn’t the longest he’d smelled it, but was perhaps the longest he’d smelled his own blood and horse droppings while staying in the same place. A day and night had passed him by, lying here, fading in and out of consciousness. His breathing was laboured, and both his legs were bent across the street’s dirt; one at an unnatural angle. Blearily watching people pass, Igor tried once or twice to call out for help, but was – unpleasantly – unsurprised when passers-by wheeled around him. This part of the city had a close-knit community, and he was unknown here except to the two gangs he’d joined, robbed from and betrayed, and ultimately fled. Igor also supposed any people those gangs hadn’t talked to recognised him as gang-associated by his unkempt, black-coloured clothing._

_Thinking vaguely of his activities in northwestern Debrecen, Igor had been surprised to face neither of the gangs he’d been involved with here, but a clan of road bandits near Hajdúszoboszló he’d thought he’d evaded three years ago. The band had been taken over by the son of their former leader – who Igor had murdered, along with his unwomanly sister he’d promised to marry when she’d caught him in the act – and had moved to northwestern Debrecen. They’d surprised Igor two nights ago, beating him with sticks, fists and tough shoes in revenge before leaving him for dead._

_Igor’s attention latched onto a lower-body whose pair of legs were walking in a curving path straight towards him. The knees bent, the legs’ owner’s silver-haired, pointed-nosed face entering Igor’s field of vision and looking straight at him. Igor found the man had a certain softness about him, yet his expression was cold and hard._

_“Are you alright, mister?” the man asked._

_“I need… water,” Igor groaned. The man looked around at the occasional passing horse and people._

_“Has no-one attempted to help you?” the man asked. The desperate chance at survival forcing his mind to sharpen, Igor shook his head. The man’s eyes looked up and down Igor like he were assessing him. “Then I must get you to proper aid. Where are you injured, so I know what not to risk exacerbating?”_

_“My stomach… legs…” Igor groaned. “Cannot walk.”_

_“I see,” the man replied. Then, raising his hand as though to command Igor’s attention, he said: “Stay here, I shall be back with help in a moment.” Igor watched the man walk away in a straight line, to a man who had a horse and wagon across the street. While Igor watched, they talked for a matter of seconds, before the second man climbed into his driving seat and got the wagon moving. He guided it down the street, then in a U-turn, while the silver-haired man slowly walked back towards Igor. The wagon rolled by directly in front of Igor, then stopped before its rear end was more than five feet away from him, the driver promptly climbing down and moving towards the broken man. The two strangers began lifting Igor by his arms, making him groan in slight pain, and hauled him onto the wagon’s back._

* * *

_Dr. Waldman stood straight-backed by the broken man’s bed, top hat held to his chest, in the candle-lit room. Even when asleep, the man looked slightly restless with his upper-lip curled back, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. Waldman didn’t know if all street-folk in Hungary were that way, having only visited this country once before his recent move to Budapest. Waldman’s thin eyebrows were slightly low, looking at the man’s neckline again. Though the white nightshirt’s collar had been moved up a little, Waldman still saw the very top edge where the man’s skin was indented, so slightly than one without his eyesight could have easily missed it – rope-indentations circling the man’s neck. He’d survived the hangman, and by the slight redness, it hadn’t been long ago. Which made Waldman concerned he might be saving a fugitive. Waldman hadn’t seen any indication the inn’s maids who’d re-dressed the man had noticed anything worrying, which made him debate mentally whether or not he should say anything. He was jarred from his thoughts by the room’s door opening behind him. A stout, middle-aged maid carrying folded clothes stopped just past the threshold upon seeing him._

_“What are you doing here, sir?” she asked, slightly alarmed._

_“I am a guest here, in the adjacent room,” Dr. Waldman began explaining. “I was the one who rescued this man from the street.”_

_“I see,” the maid said slightly warily, before promptly passing Waldman to place the new clothes upon a table. “He is not your friend?”_

_“No, he is not,” Waldman replied slightly warily, looking at the sleeping man again. He debated whether or not he should tell the maid about the noose-scar. “I simply wished to see him and know what his condition was.”_

_“I have been tending to him since he arrived,” the maid said, turning to Waldman. “He has slept since being re-dressed.” She cast a distasteful look at the sleeping man. “I know you are a stranger here, so I will forgive you for not knowing, good sir; those clothes he was in belong to a band of foul criminal men who do nothing but hurt and rob decent folk. Had my brothers or my father – God rest his soul – been in your position, they might have wished nothing but for God to strike this one down.” A brief pause followed. “Is there something you wish to say, sir?” Dr. Waldman looked back at her, slightly surprised – the maid must’ve noticed his facial expression as he’d again been considering what to say about the noose-mark._

_“No, woman, I do not believe so,” Dr. Waldman said, still undecided. He thought his manner had been slightly awkward, but the maid promptly walked past him towards the door, closing it behind her. Dr. Waldman resumed mentally debating what to do. His mother had always told him everyone deserved a chance at redemption. Would this man get such a chance if other people knew about his scar?_

* * *

Waldman drank his tea on the back lawn, while Igor removed the attic’s shattered beakers and dead cat – the Royal Society of Sciences who owned the Göttingen building didn’t appreciate experiments’ leftovers being left lying around. After the sky had turned deep-blue, Igor was cleaning an intact beaker when he saw Count Vladislaus appear on the front lawn below the window. As always; the Count wore his long black traveller’s cloak, and no horse nor carriage had been seen or heard passing but the Count didn’t look at all weary. Dr. Waldman marched towards the Count to greet him, then they moved towards the building. Igor thought there was something subliminal about how the Count often moved without making much sound. Still cleaning the beaker, Igor watched the two men until they’d disappeared below the window frame’s bottom. In the several times he’d seen the Count but barely talked to him, Igor had been able to tell there was something different about him, reminding Igor of some of the more intimidating criminals he’d worked with. He finished cleaning the beaker, then placed it in a box among other cleaned beakers, and proceeded downstairs with the box.

Approaching the stairs’ bottom with a nimble trot, Igor heard Waldman and the Count’s voices from the lounge down the hall.

“ _As persuasive as your assurances are, I grow concerned at how many setbacks you have endured, Doctor_.”

“ _I know the progress is slow, Count, but given the investigation’s subject, there must be room for trial and error_.”

Igor walked around the newel post, up the hallway lit only by a single candle. He returned the beakers to the cupboard under the stairs. Moving back towards the stairs’ bottom, he stopped on the first step, looking in the direction of the living room’s door. The matter of cleaning the attic was in Igor’s head, but he found himself leaving the stairs and walking quietly towards the lounge. The door was open a crack, letting warm candlelight through.

“How long do you need?” Count Vladislaus’ voice asked. Igor didn’t know the name of the Count’s house, he’d introduced himself by his first name and said it was a custom to call him by that in Transylvania. Igor put half his face in front of the crack, looking at Waldman sitting in an armchair, clasped hands giving away his nervousness.

“Three weeks, possibly less,” Waldman said.

“Good,” the Count’s voice said. “What resources will you need that the Royal Society is obligated not to give you?” Shifting slightly, Igor saw him sitting opposite Waldman. He wore the same black clothes, every time Igor had seen him, including a coat with military-looking embroidery. His hair was held in a ponytail by a metal clasp, save a few stray strands near the front of his head. Igor looked at the Count more than Waldman while the two talked. The Count smiled pleasantly, but something about his face wasn’t right – something felt slightly off, like something unplaceable was missing from him. Dr. Waldman seemed unquestioningly admiring of the Count, but Igor thought he recognised the signs of a dangerous man – the subtlest hints in his mannerisms, the way he held himself, and his particularly-entrancing cold blue eyes.

“Everything you need will be delivered tomorrow night,” the Count said, then began rising from the chair. Igor quickly but quietly scuttled down the hall, reaching the under-stairs cupboard just before the two men entered the hallway.

“You have my utmost thanks for your generosity, Count,” Dr. Waldman was saying, while Igor opened the cupboard and feigned checking its contents were in order.

“As you yourself have said, this work may change man’s understanding of the natural world,” Igor heard Count Vladislaus say. “It is in my eyes worth fighting to bring mankind to such a milestone in history. As the night is young, I must take my leave and bid you goodnight, Doctor, until the next time.” Igor removed a broom and closed the cupboard.

“The attic floor still needs to be swept, Doctor,” Igor said, walking halfway to Dr. Waldman.

“Then sweep it, Igor,” Dr. Waldman murmured semi-dismissively – he never seemed quite himself when Count Vladislaus visited. Igor proceeded upstairs.

Tugged by the same force that had made him eavesdrop, Igor got off on the first floor above ground, going to the nearest unoccupied room facing the front lawn. Approaching the window, he saw the Count stalk towards the street and stop at the lawn’s edge. Dark as it was, the Count’s black silhouette stood out against the road’s dirt. For several seconds, the Count simply stood while the odd pedestrian and one wagon passed in the road. The when a woman with flowers crossed directly in front of him, he sharply grabbed her arm, turning her to face him. Igor saw her seem to freeze upon seeing the Count’s face. He heard the Count talking, but his voice was too quiet to make out words. The Count and the woman turned their bodies and walked in the opposite direction than the woman had been walking in, constantly looking at each-other’s faces. Igor knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop on the Count’s business outside of the house. He knew doing so would do no favours for the stable, paid existence he’d had as Dr. Waldman’s assistant for the last few years. But somehow the wordless compulsion pushed the bright, rational sense back into his mind, and he promptly left the window.

Wearing a top hat and tailcoat, Igor emerged through the house’s front door, closing it behind him very-quietly. He was good at being quiet when sneaking around. Stalking to the lawn’s edge, but not so delicately that it would appear suspicious, Igor saw the Count and the woman’s silhouetted backs. He watched the Count steer the woman into a gap between two buildings, then calmly stepped down the street in the same direction. Upon reaching the corner, Igor halted and looked around to make sure no-one was looking in his direction – there were only a few pairs of pedestrians at this hour, and he could only see the backs of most of them. He slowly leaned forward, enough for one eye to see past the corner. The Count and the woman stood in the lane’s centre, silhouetted in the candlelight from a window at the lane’s far end. The Count’s face was on the woman’s collarbone, he slowly withdrawing a moment after Igor had started looking. The woman writhed slightly in pleasure, but barely made a sigh. Igor stared in mild shock, not as much shock as Dr. Waldman would have had – he’d known sophisticated-seeming men who’d engaged in lewd acts in his past. The Count’s face and the woman’s were close to eye-level. Then the Count lunged his head at her neck with frighteningly-sudden speed. Igor’s breathing stopped, eye widening. The woman didn’t make a sound.

_Arf! Arf!_

Igor spun in shock, seeing the dog running across the street towards him before its owner grabbed the scruff of its neck. Now in the lane entrance’s centre, he looked back in – he saw the Count tear his head from the woman, glowing pale eyes standing out. Igor turned and ran without hearing the dog-owner’s apology, not caring at all for the suspicious looks passers-by gave. He looked back over his shoulder at the lane entrance, seeing no-one, but didn’t stop running, passing the Royal Society house.

Igor’s house was a ten-minute walk from the Royal Society house, and he reached it in three minutes. Locking the door and then putting a table in front of it, Igor went to bed with a knife held close to his chest. He didn’t easily get to sleep, struggling to process what he’d seen. He’d heard tales in his homeland of the vampire, the strigoi and other creatures which fed on mortals, but he’d never seen any such monsters at day or night before – he thought they were only stories, trusting what his five senses told him were real. Igor took several hours to fall asleep, and when he did sleep, it was filled with nightmares.

* * *

_Igor was huddled in a ball by the food table’s corner – he always huddled there when he wanted to hide, even if it usually did little good. The screaming and clashing was somewhat badder than usual right now. He watched his mother, holding his five-year-old sister by her skirt, screaming hysterically in the doorway at his father – a burly-looking man in thick, loose-fitting peasant clothing, red pants standing out despite the house being darker than the outside world. The man hurled a few pots and pans at the females during and between screams. Igor wanted to run to his mother and sister, but that would mean getting past his father, and he knew if he tried, it’d be ten times worse for him than it would be anyway. His mother released two more animal wails, hurling a pan back at his father._

_“_ You won’t hurt him anymore _!” Igor’s mother shrieked. “_ He’s MINE! MY BABY! _” Igor’s father yelled and hurled another pan – his mother lifted his sister before it struck her leg, making her cry and nearly collapse._

 _“The little scum is_ mine _!” Igor’s father snarled loudly. “I’ll let him go the day the devil you spawned him with comes for him!_ You want to be without a roof, like real whores _?!” He took two menacing steps forward. Igor’s mother backed up one step, but glared, seething. “_ GO, THEN! _Take your filthy whore hide and your little youngling-whore out of my house!_ Go and join your fellows, on the roads and in fields and pig pens _!_ Go and fornicate in the dirt with the Devil’s other sons and daughters, ALL OF THEM _!” Igor’s mother screamed loudly again, a second before his father slammed the door, the outside world’s brightness cut off once more. Igor heard his mother still screaming outside, he even heard thumping and scratching on the door’s other side while his father held it shut with one boot. After several seconds, the noise stopped – Mother was going. Igor didn’t want her to go without him, he wanted her to take him too. Lowering his boot, Igor’s father turned and looked at him. Igor looked back, not wanting what came next. The moustached man came towards him in big strides, then reached with a hairy hand to grab him by the wrist._

* * *

The next day, Igor was at Dr. Waldman’s own house, helping develop their next chemical batch – barring an interruption in the late morning, when a staff-member from the Royal Society house had turned up complaining that broken glass had been left on the attic floor. Igor had been unsettled to learn Dr. Waldman had received a letter from Count Vladislaus, saying he’d be visiting the doctor’s house in the evening on short notice. Igor hoped he and the doctor would finish their work before then – if not, Igor would feign sickness, attempt practically anything to avoid meeting the Count. He wondered if he should try fleeing Göttingen and convince Dr. Waldman to leave with him. In the early afternoon, with the evening looming near, Igor found himself pressed to try talking.

“Doctor,” he said, looking over at the man, whose face was in front of a beaker while he swirled its contents.

“Yes, Igor?” Dr. Waldman said, looking at him as though he’d just been roused.

“I feel I need to ask, do you believe the Count is a trustworthy man?” Igor began cautiously.

“Of course, Igor!” Waldman said, like the suggestion the Count was dishonest were unthinkable. “He has been our sole benefactor since we began seeking financial aid! What would make you think otherwise?” Igor doubted he could tell Dr. Waldman about what he’d seen, and he’d never been good at lying directly to someone’s face, but perhaps if he described his encounters with the Count the right way, it might turn the doctor’s head slightly.

“The way I have heard him speak – his demands, and his mood when impatient about the experiments – concern me,” Igor began somewhat-carefully. “I have seen his manners shift depending on whether or not he is speaking to you. Last night, I saw him walk with a woman I do not believe was his wife. I fear he might have his own motives concerning the work and what he will do with it.”

“Wha-” Dr. Waldman looked slightly astounded. “Igor, the Count appeared from nowhere offering to back our work six months ago. I am appalled that you would suggest he is being dishonest, based on proof no more substantial than perceived shifts in his manner! And when did you see him last night?”

“From the laboratory house’s _attic_ , before he was out of sight from the building,” Igor said, just stopping himself short of saying he’d watched from the first floor. “A woman in average clothes joined him.”

“They may have been simple acquaintances, and even so, you and I have no business nosing into the Count’s private life,” Dr. Waldman said after one second’s thought. “Regarding his alleged manner shifts, I believe he is simply concerned about the work’s progress. Otherwise, he may have private concerns on his mind, in which case I repeat my point – we have no business looking into the Count’s private life without welcome. Now, let us speak no more of this.” Dr. Waldman immediately turned back to the beaker. Igor’s eyes momentarily lingered on him, the orange-haired man wondering how else he would evade the Count if he couldn’t convince Waldman.

* * *

Afternoon turned to early evening, then late evening. Watching the light go and the sky darken, Igor grew increasingly anxious, the change in light marking how time was running like water from a leaking bucket. The thought of the Count doing what Igor had seen him do in the lane repeated in his mind. An hour after sunset, Igor and Dr. Waldman were mixing liquid chemicals when they heard a rhythmic knock from the front door in the hallway. Dr. Waldman immediately walked to the living room door, vanishing from sight down the hallway. Igor continued stirring the chemicals, but kept an ear out.

“Good evening, doctor,” the Count’s voice said. Igor’s heart started thumping harder, immediately fearing the worst.

“Count,” Dr. Waldman’s voice greeted. “Please do enter.” Igor heard the door shut. “Shall we talk in the dining room?”

“I would like to see your laboratory assistant first,” the Count’s voice replied, making Igor’s eyes widen. “Through there, I assume?” Igor frantically looked around the living room.

“Igor?” Dr. Waldman’s voice almost squawked. “Of course. Yes, he is in there, Count.” Seeing a letter opener on the mantel, Igor hurriedly ran and grabbed it. Hiding his hand behind his back, he looked in time to see Count Vladislaus step through the doorway in his travelling cloak, blue eyes almost-instantly finding Igor. The Count stopped a few feet past the doorway, giving Waldman just enough room to slide in.

“Greetings, Igor,” the Count said, smiling pleasantly. “It has been some time since we last conversed directly.”

“Count Vladislaus,” Igor said in greeting, bowing slightly. He momentarily wondered if the Count hadn’t recognised him when he’d seen him the other night. Still, he clutched the letter opener tightly.

Looking at Waldman, the Count said: “I would like to have a room in which Igor and I may speak privately.” He sounded like he wasn’t asking.

“You may have the living room as of right now,” Dr. Waldman said. He hurried towards the chemical beakers, picking up the rack they were on. “I shall continue the chemical work myself in the study. I shall be there should you need me.”

“Good,” the Count said. Dr. Waldman shot an almost-anxious look at Igor, obviously concerned about what would come of this, before exiting. A pause passed in which the Count looked back at Igor piercingly.

“You seem quiet,” the Count murmured while shedding his cloak, smiling slyly – Igor recognised the kind of smile that belied a terrible man. Dumping his cloak on a chair unceremoniously, the Count slowly stalked towards Igor. Igor curled his upper-lip in an innocent grin.

“To what do I owe this private audience, Count?” Igor asked, trying to keep his voice calm. The Count chuckled, sounding very non-mirthful. Involuntarily, Igor took a step back.

“You saw me eating my evening meal last night,” he said, voice almost a growl. Igor’s grin faded and he backed up two more steps.

“You… You are not a man,” Igor said, horrified.

“I am not,” the Count murmured matter-of-factly. Igor backed up one more step, and his back hit the wall beside the fireplace, near the corner. The Count stopped five paces away from Igor and put his hands behind his back, smiling. Igor noted the door was directly behind the Count’s shoulder from him. “How long have you have worked with Dr. Waldman for, Igor?”

“Four years,” Igor said, voice trembling slightly. He wasn’t consciously sure why he wasn’t already brandishing the knife, but he knew if slipping away failed, talking would always buy him some time.

“ _Four years_ ,” the Count echoed huskily. Turning on his heel, he started walking away slowly. “Four years ago is the exact same time Dr. Waldman’s career shifted. Did you also help him with his experiment to prove the existence of a vital principle?” Slowly pacing, the Count always kept himself between Igor and the door.

“I did,” Igor replied carefully. “Why do you ask me?” The Count grinned almost-humorously.

“The experiment was unsuccessful, but the use of chemistry was praised by the philosophical community as revolutionary,” the Count said. He stopped and turned his full body on Igor, three steps in front of him. “Dr. Waldman had struggled with new technology before then; suddenly he began using methods that even well-versed scientists fumbled over! How did that happen?”

“I-I assisted him with the chemicals and laboratory machinery,” Igor said; first hesitantly, then slightly-quickly as the Count took two steps forward, Igor’s back pressing against the wall.

“As you’ve assisted him with every experiment since, including his current attempts to produce a death-reversing serum?” the Count murmured, eyes locked with Igor’s.

“Yes,” Igor said enthusiastically, hoping this was his way to avoid the woman’s fate.

“Which means Dr. Waldman has been using _your_ revolutionary methods and taking credibility,” the Count murmured, a dark look naked in his eyes. Then he looked almost-dismissively at Igor’s waistcoat, straightening its neckline-collar by Igor’s right shoulder with his thumb and index finger. “Tell me, Igor, what is it you want?” Igor paused.

“Wha-?” Igor bit his tongue when the Count’s gaze held his, face holding a cool expression Igor didn’t take lightly. In the face of this man-like monster, Igor seriously considered. Slowly, he felt part of himself that had been untouched for a long time re-emerging. “I… I want… to be part of something powerful,” Igor murmured grovelingly, sinking to his knees with his back against the wall, while his eyes and the Count’s remained locked. “I want to be your servant!”

“What made you believe I need or want a servant?” the Count murmured coldly. Igor’s eyes widened worriedly and his grip on the knife tightened. The Count smiled again. “That is not to say I don’t have _room_ for a new servant,” he said reassuringly. Putting two fingers under Igor’s chin, he slowly lifted his head to eye-level like it were weightless. “You couldn’t have sought power from a greater master, Igor, as there are no supernatural creatures in the world today more powerful than Dracula, son of the Devil.” Igor’s eyes widened slightly, breath hitching. The letter knife fell – it hit the fireplace’s stone platform with a noise, but the Count didn’t bat an eye.

“Oh, great King of the Night,” Igor all but moaned grovelingly. “I have to give you the crafts of my hands and the cruelties I have learned in the past. Let me give my soul to be your servant, and I will be by your side faithfully.”

“Enough with the begging,” the Count, Dracula, said sharply. Igor looked up. Turning on the spot, the Count looked almost-nonchalantly around the living room. “I am starting to think Dr. Waldman’s experiments are not leading anywhere,” he said, stepping slowly towards the room’s centre. Then he looked back at Igor, icy gaze intent. “ _Kill him_ , and I shall give you eternal life; you shall be at my side, doing my bidding, throughout eternity.” A pause passed. Igor’s jaw hung, the orange-haired man hardly able to believe what he’d heard. Igor’s life had been spent seeking money, shelter and violent work among the worst criminal bands, then backstabbing them before they backstabbed him. To have eternal life and be at the son of the Devil’s side, in exchange for eternal servitude, was overwhelming. More than half of Igor felt less-than-amicable, remembering what Dr. Waldman had done for him without initial gain, but that voice was almost-casual to Igor, like something he could disappoint shamelessly. In the face of this monster that could kill Igor but was instead offering him eternal life, the meaning of the life he’d made with Waldman crumbled like bones turning to powder.

“It will be done,” Igor said, the pointed-chinned man grinning awfully. A thin smile spread on Dracula’s face.

* * *

_“Now, while the powders heat in the furnace, a black powder should appear in these retorts-” Dr. Waldman pointed to the glass baubles plugged into the cylindrical furnace’s top. “-if I have theorised correctly.” He turned directly to Igor, making slight chopping hand-motions emphatically as he said: “It is important the baubles aren’t touched before seven o’clock.”_

_“I understand, Doctor,” the large-foreheaded man, who still leaned on a crutch, said seriously._

_“Good,” Waldman said evenly. He hurriedly looked at the longcase clock on the workshop’s far wall, past Igor. “Remember those instructions, Igor. It is imperative they’re followed in the time it shall take me to reach the apothecary and return.”_

_“I understand,” the orange-haired man repeated, looking at him. Dr. Waldman nodded, then all but sprinted across the workshop towards the door, barely snatching his tailcoat from its hook on the wall. Igor watched over his shoulder as the doctor exited, then looked back at the furnace. He was alone in the twenty-foot wide workshop, surrounded by tables lined with glass and metal instruments. Sliding powders into the furnace’s upper-compartment and shovelling coal into the bottom-compartment, Igor thought deeply about how he’d wound up in this workshop in Budapest, working as a laboratory assistant. Igor had taken advantage of strangers’ kindness before, but Dr. Waldman was the first person who’d both given him shelter and offered him permanent paid employment. Less than three weeks ago, Igor probably would have robbed the man and fled once he was able-bodied, but after what had happened in Debrecen, Igor was feeling more wary of doing so than he’d ever been before. Igor hadn’t questioned his way of living since moving on from his first gang – the one who’d done him the pleasure of breaking his father’s body before letting him plunge a knife in the man’s heart, when he’d been ten years old. He took what he needed from whoever he was with, then he killed whoever was in charge before they killed him, and he could move on without worry. Then after twenty-five years, the bandits had reappeared out of nowhere and nearly killed him, which made Igor have to doubt that lifelong code, wondering if it really worked or if more unwelcomely-familiar faces were waiting to gut him for robbing them. Igor thought hard on it before a flare of flames burst from the tray’s upper-compartment, immediately making him look._

* * *

_Dr. Waldman pushed through the workshop door – he held it open with his foot while placing the crate on the floor, before slipping in and letting the door swing shut. He picked up the crate and took one step forward before freezing. The furnace at the far end of the workshop was completely wrong. Its surface had been blackened around the top compartment; the top part of the furnace’s chimney had been sawed open, letting black smoke pour towards the ceiling before crawling out the open windows lining the workshop walls. A new piping, brighter-chrome than the rest of the furnace, had been attached near the bottom – it bent and extended across the floor, ending at the nearest window, with smoke pouring out. Igor sat at a table with his back to the door, slightly hunched-over._

_Dr. Waldman’s jaw immediately clenched, a furious blush going through him. He’d spent nights and nights toiling over written instructions and revising his chemistry notes to ensure there were no malfunctions. He’d instructed Igor as clearly as was possible, and he returned to_ this _! Waldman neither knew nor cared why Igor had interfered. Though he’d offered Igor a permanent job, he’d meant it when he’d warned Igor that robbing or sabotaging the laboratory would result in Igor losing his current job immediately. Waldman marched across the workshop, trying to restrain his anger for now._

_“Igor!” Waldman barked, stopping five feet diagonally behind Igor at the next nearest table’s corner. He could see Igor was reading through an illustrated book._

_“Doctor,” Igor said in greeting, grinning like he’d done nothing wrong._

_“_ What. Is this _?!” Dr. Waldman growled through his teeth, pointing at the furnace. Igor looked._

_“The furnace exploded after you left,” Igor explained. He pointed to the open book’s pages. “I removed a portion of coal from the bottom, and read your instruction books to understand the problem’s cause.” Waldman’s thoughts about punishing Igor came to a standstill, while the orange-haired man pointed at the sawed-off chimney. “The chimney was obstructed. I installed a new one, and opened the old to release the excess smoke.” Dr. Waldman looked back at the furnace, then at Igor, whose brows were furrowed in worry. All but pushing Igor aside, he quickly looked at the book’s illustrations, also taking note of the short stack of closed books beside the open one. Waldman flipped back through a few pages, before finding one with an illustration of the furnace leaking flames. He looked back at the altered furnace._

_“You did this?!” Dr. Waldman murmured, looking at Igor – he could hardly believe the crutch-using man were capable of it._

_“Yes,” Igor replied. “I said I’d repaired machines before, in my criminal past.” Looking back at the furnace, Waldman all but shot up and strode to the machine, walking over the new pipe and circling to examine the machine’s surfaces. “I beg your forgiveness for disobeying your instructions,” Igor said, hanging his head in a dog-like manner. Waldman immediately looked back at the orange-haired man from half-behind the furnace, eyes wide. Then he looked at the furnace’s half-blackened casing in front of him._

_“I do not think there is any need for an apology,” Dr. Waldman murmured breathily. When he looked at Igor again, he couldn’t help but start beaming. Perhaps God had rewarded him for his good deed._

* * *

The same night Dracula had revealed himself, Igor didn’t act until after he’d been dismissed by Waldman. He waited at his own house until it was particularly-late, then he left, heading to the local cemetery. He dug open two graves, leaving with their contents just as the first orange streaks on the horizon hinted at dawn.

Dr. Waldman was arrested two days later. When the authorities questioned him, Igor insisted only animal corpses had been used in their experiments, and he hadn’t known the doctor was engaging in ‘such ungodly perversions’ as the discovery in his cot at the Royal Society house indicated. The next day, Igor was reading a newspaper headline: ‘MAD SCIENTIST TAKES THE DEAD INTO HIS BED’. Igor kept up with the news for the next ten days straight. For the first five, he’d only had to glance at newspaper vendors’ stocks because Dr. Waldman’s trial had been somewhere on the front page, but he’d afterwards had to start buying newspapers to read the story inside. The eighth day’s newspaper stated the ‘Abominable grave robber’’s sentence, and the tenth newspaper described his public hanging – Igor had the urge to rub his neck-scar when he read about the execution.

* * *

On the tenth day, Igor was on a restless evening walk. The night sky was deep-blue as he walked up the street to his house. Reaching the front door, he put the key in the lock, glaring under his top hat’s shadow.

“May I enter?” purred the black figure who hadn’t been beside Igor two seconds ago. Igor spun in shock, crying out momentarily. He froze, breathing on seeing who it was.

“Count!” Igor exclaimed, eyes wide. Dracula had a look on his face that wouldn’t be refused. Igor grinned and said, “Yes, come in!” Turning the key and pushing the door open, Igor entered the dark hallway first, the Count striding over the threshold behind him. The Count slammed the door with a sharp noise, leaving the hall in total blackness. Igor half-staggered into a moonbeam by a window, then turned. Soundlessly, the Count’s face loomed out of the darkness from in the same direction Igor had come from – the lines on his face were harsh, eyes bitterly cold. Igor quietly gulped in worry.

“C-Count?” the orange-haired man murmured, eyes wide.

“Usually when I tell someone to kill, I expect them to drive the knife in theirself,” the Count said icily. A pause passed before Igor found his voice.

“I-I am sorry!” he exclaimed desperately. “Tell me to kill someone else, I will do it! Anyone else! I’ll-” Igor stopped when the Count raised a gloveless hand.

“Don’t fear for your life so quickly,” the Count said. “There is another way you may prove yourself worthy to serve me.” Igor relaxed partly, letting out a very-quiet sigh. The Count reached into his cloak, camouflaged with the darkness. He slowly brought out a small, white bundle, in which a tiny baby was wrapped. Igor looked nonchalantly at the baby – he’d murdered children three times before, this wouldn’t be anything new for him – then as it turned its large head and revealed bright-blue eyes, a horrible feeling slowly wormed its way into Igor’s stomach.

“What is that child?” Igor asked uncertainly. When Dracula didn’t immediately answer, Igor looked and saw his gaze was expectant. Igor’s eyes shifted between Dracula’s and the child’s. “Is that… related to me?”

“It is your sister’s,” the Count said. “I believe it’s barely three months old.”

“And she-?”

“She didn’t see anyone take it,” the Count cut him off, voice quiet. “She was lying outside an inn.” If Igor kept count, he could probably count on his ten fingers the number of times thinking of another person had made him feel anguish that stabbed like this. He hadn’t thought of his mother and sister much after they’d left, but he’d vaguely hoped his sister was alright. He felt something close to satisfaction or relief she was alive, but thinking she were in the state and place the Count had said she was meant he wasn’t overly-joyful.

“…How did you know?” Igor asked after a pause, eyebrows sloping in a distraught expression.

“You’re a smart man, Igor,” the Count purred, gloved hand’s knuckles stroking the child’s cheek like petting a cat. “Tell me.” He looked up, blue eyes piercing. Igor thought briefly. He’d been among lots of criminals who’d used children and women as spies, could Count Dracula have such spies of his own? When they’d first been introduced, he’d told Dracula his family’s name – an uncommon name – and that he hailed from a homestead east of Budapest. The last time Igor had seen the area, there hadn’t been more than farms, peasant villages and the odd gypsy camp.

“You knew because of my family name and home,” Igor said.

“Good,” Dracula purred, smiling darkly. Igor looked back at the infant.

“You want me to kill it,” he said – he knew not to _ask_. Dracula held the infant out. Igor delicately took it in his arms, expression something like anguish and longing. The infant cooed joyfully, staring up at Igor. Igor felt like a cold spear-tip were driving downward through his guts, twisting so his entrails knotted around it. He was also aware of the Count standing in front of him, could feel his piercing gaze boring him. He’d been ordered by gang-leaders to prove himself by doing something horrible before. Though this baby was not the same as anyone else’s or a helpless animal-cub for Igor, he’d encountered enough awful criminals to know how this likely worked. He could kill the baby and he’d receive his reward; if he refused, he’d pay. And Igor suspected he didn’t want Count Dracula to make him pay. Cradling the baby to his chest, Igor slowly shuffled from the moonbeam towards his kitchen. Entering a patch of illumination, Igor removed a meat knife from its place on the wall. He turned his body, as though hiding the act from nonexistent prying eyes. He poised the knife. He brought the knife down, cutting the baby off mid-cry.

* * *

The night the child died, the Count – now Igor’s Master – set off for Transylvania with his business in Germany finished. Igor accompanied the living servants, who carried the Master’s coffin southeast by coach until they reached the Eastern Carpathian Mountains. At the mountains’ westernmost part, the Diwergi led Igor through their tunnels to the Master’s castle, while the Master flew over the mountains at night.

Igor had been expecting to become like the Master and his brides. The Master said Igor would be rewarded, but he needed servants who could operate in the day. He had Igor drink potions he said would give him immortality. They made Igor feel like his insides were on fire, though he never died. From then on, Igor drank the potions twice a month. Sometimes, Igor begged the Master not to make him drink, and the Master had the Diwergi force-feed Igor the liquid. Igor learned the Master hadn’t lied – forty years in the Master’s service passed him, then fifty; sixty. But the potions were taking a toll over the years – Igor’s skin thickened and turned white; his hair became stringy, clinging to his head in places, and discoloured, though it didn’t grey; his eyebrows vanished, leaving a thick brow-ridge; and his body’s posture gradually became hunched over, limbs awkward to use. Igor didn’t know if his dark-yellow teeth, some of which were missing, were caused by the potion or by the unpleasant food his Master allowed him; nor did he particularly care anymore.

The pain drinking the potions caused seemed to last longer as time went on, or perhaps it was Igor’s malformation. Sixty years after becoming the Master’s servant, Igor’s pain was near-constant, though the Master had taught Igor his body could still experience _much_ greater pain. In his pain, Igor found a favourite hobby – tormenting other things with the nastiest instruments that entered the Master’s castle. He never missed an opportunity if it could be helped. Igor almost-always had work, though he answered more directly to the Master than most living servants. Most work was laboratorial, concerning the Master’s secret supreme goal. A fair share was torturing. For both job types, Igor always made sure he was sophisticated with the newest technology, seeing many inventions come about. The dynamo, the Bunsen burner, the electric prod to name a few. The Master seemed to approve of Igor’s cruelty. He often asked Igor why he inflicted such torment, and Igor gave the same answer. Then they both recited the very mantra Igor lived by, had lived by since he’d learned to read and write.

* * *

Igor jabbed near-furiously at the chained werewolf, grunting with the effort, backing slightly when the werewolf slashed too near.

“Igor!” the Master’s voice called from the nearby space, where he rested in the day.

“Yes, Master!” The pasty, hunched creature passed between vast hanging cloths, electrical prod crackling. The Master stood with two of his brides upon him.

“Why do you torment that thing so?” he asked, looking over his brides’ heads as they caressed his upper-body.

“It’s what I do.” Igor had given the same answer for nearly seventy years.

“Remember, Igor,” the Master said, “do unto others…”

“Before they do unto me!” the creature finished blasphemously, patting a hand to his chest. “Master.”


	7. Aleera

**Transylvania, 1805**

Entering the castle armoury, Aleera found her sister, cousin and father equipping themselves for the hunt, all dressed in hunting coats, boots and pantaloons. Her cousin Vidor, a tall and thin young man, was considering a flintlock.

“Father.” The bearded, broad-shouldered man looked, dark eyes widening. Though his curly brown beard concealed his mouth, Aleera could tell by the way the moustache’s edges curled he was grimacing slightly.

“Why on earth are you wearing that?” Vidor said, giving Aleera a teasing grin. He had dark eyes and angular cheekbones like her father – his uncle – but his jaw was more square-shaped and he had no beard.

“Father said I would take part in a hunt one day,” Aleera replied, crossing her arms while looking at Vidor almost-haughtily. She was dressed in pantaloons, waistcoat and a spencer coat like her sister, curly red hair tied in a bun. She swallowed down her self-consciousness about her mannish attire.

“Aleera, I said I would consider it,” Kazmer Valerious said, voice deep and commanding. He took three steps towards her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Hunting is no wade in a river nor stroll in the village. It involves facing beasts that will kill you if you don’t kill them first.”

“Then let me come so I won’t ask to see such things again,” Aleera pleaded. “Father, I will soon be in my thirtieth year, yet I know nothing about what my own family does outside of the castle walls. Nor have I ever been outside those walls without being accompanied!”

“My answer remains _no_ , Aleera,” Kazmer said firmly. “Read to your mother, you know how she enjoys you reading to her.” Aleera glared slightly – though she loved her father, she hated being ordered around like a child, told how to behave and what to do.

“Very well,” she said coolly. Aleera caught a sympathetic look from her brown-haired sister, who had eyes matching hers, before the redhead turned heel and marched – almost stormed – from the armoury.

* * *

Aleera sat at the bedside in her pale-grey daywear dress, novel open in her hands as she read aloud – she’d been reading it chapter-by-chapter for the last two weeks. With her bun undone, her red curls flowed past her shoulders, looking fiery in the orange candlelight. Reaching the chapter’s end, she closed the book.

“What a remarkable turn of events,” the elderly half-Spanish woman in the bed croaked, eyes gazing at the ceiling. She had the same fiery hair as Aleera, though it had started greying. Aleera’s heart ached, looking at her mother who’d been bedridden for two months. Vidor didn’t think much of her state – the stuck-up oaf thought nothing could keep down a woman as stubborn as she’d once been. Aleera’s sister felt worried, the same as she did and she thought their father did. But besides heartache, Aleera also felt fear. For whatever reason her parents insisted was so bland it would be of no interest to her, Aleera’s mother had never left Castle Valerious without her husband, her entire married life. Whether out of resentment or genuine belief, Aleera blamed her mother’s isolated life for her health’s slow decline, and she couldn’t stop thinking of herself slowly falling ill like that. A knock at the door made Aleera turn her head. Her twin sister, Elena, stepped in. Though their eyes matched and their hair had the same curls, Elena’s face was slightly thinner than Aleera’s. She had a broadsword at her waist, pistols slotted in either Hessian boot. Elena gave a greeting look at Aleera, who smiled, then looked concerned at their mother.

“How do you feel today, Mother?” Elena asked softly, arms crossed and face soft.

“Much better than when I slept through an entire day,” the old woman croaked slightly-defiantly. Grinning, Aleera suppressed a giggle. Her mother and sister’s clashing had always amused her.

“Vidor, Father and I are now leaving on a hunt,” Elena said. Looking at Aleera: “Do you want to see us off?”

“I shall,” Aleera said, almost sighing defeatedly. She held and rubbed her mother’s hand comfortingly a moment, then rose and walked towards the door.

“Goodbye, Mother,” Elena said.

“Be careful not to get yourself killed, handling all those men’s pistols!” the old woman called loudly as Aleera exited, before Elena followed. Aleera walked ahead down the hallway, before Elena caught up at a fast walker’s pace.

“I am sorry about what happened in the armoury, Aleera,” Elena said, walking just behind her shoulder.

“I know you are,” Aleera said, casting a warm look back at her.

“We should return in the late afternoon, as usual,” Elena said more formally. She put her hand on Aleera’s arm, both of them stopping in the hallway, looking at each-other. “But I promise, I will speak to Father about you and the family hunting business.” Aleera smiled, recognising her sister’s _I-mean-it_ tone.

“Thank you, Elena,” Aleera said meaningfully.

“If the hunt goes well today, and I shall go to extra efforts to see that it does, we might return home early,” Elena said, smiling back.

“ _Elena_!” Vidor’s voice called from ahead, in the front hall below the landing. “Are you coming or not?!”

“We had best hurry to the doors before Father gets impatient,” Elena said, she and Aleera sharing a mischievous grin before half-running ahead, Aleera holding up her dress’s hem.

* * *

When not seeing to her mother, Aleera passed the time wandering the castle’s halls, looking at the wall’s paintings and weapons again. In spite of how dull she found seeing the same pictures, Aleera would have had to look twice to tell if one had gone missing – it had happened once or twice, as unlike other estates, the Valerious hired villagers as servants instead of having a staff living in the castle. Though every time it had happened, Kazmer had found the perpetrator and punished them severely.

At one o’clock, Aleera watched her family returning, from the window. Elena had an awful bruise on her face, and their hunting clothing was dirtied and cut deep enough to draw blood. Aleera proceeded downstairs, opening the front hall’s huge double-doors.

“What happened?” Aleera asked quietly as her family passed through, looking at them in concern.

“The wolf we were hunting nearly savaged Vidor,” Elena murmured, entering after Kazmer and before Vidor. “It got away.”

“The hunt will resume tomorrow,” Kazmer murmured.

* * *

After dinner, Aleera retreated to her study room to revise her language skills. She heard Elena and Kazmer’s voices competing in the dining hall, making her look forward to talking with them later in the day. In the early evening, she finished reading to her mother her current book’s last chapter. At sunset, she was in the ground-floor library, removing a new novel from the shelf to read to her mother. She turned from the shelf, stopping when she saw her father in the library’s doorway.

“Father,” Aleera said, smiling. Kazmer strode in, bearded face looking grave. Aleera knew it meant he was very serious, and was half-eager to hear what he would say, hoping it concerned her and her family’s hunting.

“Sit down,” Kazmer said, gesturing to the library’s armchair. Aleera obeyed. He walked in front and stood over her, looking down with hands behind his back.

“Elena has talked to me about your interest in hunting,” Kazmer murmured quietly. Aleera watched his face carefully, becoming suddenly uncertain about his manner. “She made valid points about your behaviour, and about how much you do and don’t know.”

“How did the argument end?” Aleera asked. A pause followed, before her father slowly sat on the armchair opposite her, looking at her.

“You will spend the next summer with your mother’s second cousins in Vienna,” Kazmer murmured. Aleera took a moment to respond.

“But Father-!” she began, shocked and aghast.

“Elena argued it was unhealthy for you to be overly-sheltered in the castle, and she was right,” Kazmer cut her off. “But it is even more dangerous for you to be exposed to Transylvania’s wilds. In Vienna, you will have fresh air, safety, and the freedom to be outside and meeting new people.”

“But I do not want to be carted off to a distant city, Father!” Aleera snapped – she rose from the armchair, suddenly feeling very angry. “What I want is to know where my family are, nearly a third of their waking time in each month!”

“Watch your tongue, Princess Aleera,” Kazmer said darkly, holding Aleera’s eyes. “Your sister told me your emotional situation, and this is my remedy.”

“Father, I don’t want to be separated from my family for months because of-!”

“ _Enough_!” Kazmer raised his voice, instantly silencing Aleera. “My decision is final!” Aleera looked her father in the eye, emotions beginning to swirl in her with increasing power – she felt horrid, angry and desperate. Kazmer sighed slightly, face instantly softening, and stood up. “It is nearly nightfall. You should see to your mother.” Aleera stared at her father a moment longer, then she angrily marched past him.

Reading to her mother, silently eating her evening meal and putting her mother to bed, Aleera couldn’t shake off her fury at her situation. She’d hoped Elena talking with their father would grant her more freedom and let her know what her family did when hunting, she’d never dreaded it would result in her being apart from them for an entire season. Lying awake late at night, Aleera toiled with her distraught thoughts, and with everything Elena and Kazmer had said. Her thoughts came back to the hunting, specifically what her father had said about resuming tomorrow.

* * *

Aleera was woken by Vidor just after dawn – the usual time. She quickly slipped into daywear, then started making hers and her mother’s breakfast. By the time Aleera had finished preparing, her father, Elena and Vidor had finished their morning food. Exiting from the kitchen into the hallway, carrying her mother’s breakfast on a bronze tray, Aleera saw Kazmer, Vidor and Elena entering the armoury by the castle’s rear side, backs to her apart from Vidor glancing over his shoulder in acknowledgement. Aleera’s mother was sound asleep when she placed the tray beside the bed, and when she quietly exited. Going straight to Elena’s bedroom, Aleera traded her daywear for pantaloons, boots, a waistcoat and a spencer like she’d had yesterday, though she didn’t tie her hair up. Returning to her west-facing bedroom, Aleera watched from the window until she saw her family’s horses riding northwards alongside the house. She immediately made her way downstairs and out the front doors – it felt somewhat strange to be outside without anyone she knew – and wound towards the stables on the castle’s west side. Choosing a large horse her family had had for a year, Aleera mounted it and guided it out of the stable gates at a trot – she was thankful her parents had allowed her to learn horse-riding close to the castle. Once it was clear, Aleera urged the horse into a slow run to Vaseria’s northern border, then into a full-blown run, following the tiny black dots that were her family’s horses, skirting around Vaseria.

The cold wind bit hard at Aleera’s face with her horse’s speed. Seeing the world blur by so fast also took Aleera some time to adjust to, having never been on a speeding horse before. She at one point lost a hand on the horse’s reins, almost dislodging her. Four or five horses broke away from the village, joining the Valerious, then another five descended from the mountains’ slopes and did likewise. _Gypsies_ , Aleera thought of the mountain-riders. Nearly half of the gypsy bands in Transylvania were sworn to serve the Valerious, having even proclaimed them their Royalty. The party skirted around to the valley’s southern side, riding into the mountains, Aleera’s horse following no more than a mile behind. Aleera passed high enough up the first mountains’ slopes that she could see the whole village behind her, houses looking tiny. Then the village was gone, blocked by the first two mountains when they were behind Aleera. Gigantic-looking peaks stretched seemingly to Heaven in front, left and right. Less than a mile ahead, the uneven path bent off left, into the space behind one peak and in front of another, so Aleera urged her horse to get closer to the party before she lost sight of them. She dreaded the idea of taking a wrong turn and getting lost in the mountains, having almost never gone this far in. The horse at the party’s tail disappeared around the corner, thirty seconds before Aleera’s horse rounded it. She saw the party ahead, ten seconds before they again disappeared, at a fork between the peaks. The party and Aleera navigated five more bends, the fourth of which brought them up an awkward rocky path high on a mountain’s side, before the party wound halfway around the mountain – its other side formed part of a wooded, V-shaped valley-slope. Slowing her horse to a stop, Aleera watched from the path’s sharp curve as the party dismounted their horses at the valley-woods’ borders, where the trees thinned out. The party-members tied their horses to the ground by nailing their reins in with spikes, then they started removing extra loads from the horses. Aleera saw pistols, rope, tools and what looked like metal bars. She saw her father gesture to the others with his arm, then lead the party into the valley-trees. When the last non-green moving shape had disappeared, Aleera urged her horse into a forward trot.

Reaching the wood’s edge, Aleera dismounted her horse, tying its reins to one of the other horses’ spikes. Looking at the trees that started thin but quickly thickened further downhill, Aleera stood still for a few moments. The way it looked so dim under the trees, like even if the sun were bright it wouldn’t penetrate, made Aleera hesitant, as did the thin, wispy mist crawling among the trees. It conjured mental images of bears and wolves tearing her apart. Aleera quickly brushed the thoughts aside, reminding herself her family and ten other hunting men couldn’t be far from here. Slowly, she made her way forward, entering the first few trees. Descending the sloping land, long-dead leaves and pine needles were soon crunching under Aleera’s boots, prompting her to try skirting them and keeping her boots on bare earth. As the trees thickened, she felt almost like she were indoors. She couldn’t hear any distant noises but the odd bird-call, which made Aleera consider making herself heard so she could find the party – then she thought better, worrying her father might take her home immediately. She looked between the thick tree-trunks for any movement among the woodland. After what seemed like several minutes, she saw two heads and dark clothing, disappearing down a nearby incline. Aleera made her way towards them, barely missing twigs and fallen branches. Eventually, she saw her family, and several gypsies and villagers, moving through the woods further ahead.

It seemed like the party had been descending for an hour before they stopped. Aleera crouched by a tree trunk, watching. Over several minutes, some gypsies and villagers disappeared into well-covered hiding spots among the shrubs, while others and Aleera’s family started putting their metal bar loads together with tools. When they were nearly finished after eight minutes, Aleera realised they were constructed a floorless cage. A gypsy-man approached the cage with a large rope. Aleera leaned forward, hoping to see better. Her spencer brushed the trunk’s bark, and a twig snapped loudly when her boot’s heel pressed down, making her slightly recoil. Aleera didn’t see Vidor by the cage go straight-backed. Gypsies threw the cage-rope over a high branch, working together to hoist the cage into the air. Aleera stared, realising the cage was a trap, then wondering what a cage that size was intended for. She didn’t notice the silent figure closing in on her side, before it slapped a hand over her mouth and forced her back to the trunk.

“ _Aleera_?!” Vidor hissed quietly, square-jawed face a foot from hers. “What on earth are you doing here?!” He lowered his hand so she could speak. Aleera was momentarily lost for words.

“I-I followed you, Elena and Father!” she said quickly. “Elena left a flintlock behind…”

“Are you _insane_?!” Vidor growled urgently through his teeth, and Aleera found herself distressed by his serious behaviour. “Did Father not tell you about the dangers?!”

“Vidor, Father does not need to know I’m here, if you-” Aleera trailed off, something yellowish-pink just past the edge of Vidor’s head catching her eye.

“ _No_ , Aleera,” Vidor hissed, “this is not a time or a place for secret-keeping! Father needs to know about this and-” Aleera’s eyes had started widening, and Vidor stopped talking. He turned his head, both of them seeing the severed human hand on the ground. Aleera’s mouth opened – Vidor covered it just before she could scream. Her eyes re-met his, and he put a finger to his lips for silence. A quiet sound started in the wood – Vidor looked first, then Aleera. Thirty feet down the wood-slope, Elena was making a quiet sobbing sound like a distressed woman, practically the only audible sound. Vidor wordlessly pulled Aleera to her feet, hurriedly leading her towards a large shrub and forcing her to crouch beside him. Just able to see through the shrub’s green and branches, Aleera stared at Elena’s back, her clothing standing out among the trees and mist. Aleera’s eyes squinted slightly, wondering what was going on. She turned her head to Vidor, who gently placed a hand back over her mouth and put a finger to his lips again, eyes deadly-serious. A few moments later, there was a new sound mixed with Elena’s sobbing – a low growl, equal in quietness. Aleera’s heart skipped a beat. Elena’s sobbing continued, the growling gone. The white-haired monster burst through the branches with a sudden roar, man-like arms – one of which ended in a stub – splayed ahead of its wolfish head. Elena ran like she hadn’t just looked vulnerable. In the second the wolf touched earth, the metal cage fell, bottom rim catching the creature’s back and slamming it to the ground. Gypsies, villagers and Kazmer emerged, firing pistols.

“Stay down!” Vidor yelled at Aleera, before sprinting out from the shrub. The wolf-creature threw the cage off its back, roaring at the people surrounding it. Several people carried a metal net between them and threw it – it only got over half the creature’s body, before the creature shrugged it off. Grabbing the nearest villager, the monster threw him like he were a ragdoll, then it swiped its clawed hand at someone else. Aleera saw her father run forward, broadsword raised, pistol in the other hand. A second before he would’ve stabbed the creature, it grabbed his pistol-hand’s wrist, lifting him off the ground. It lunged its head, jaws open, but Kazmer swung his broadsword – the blade horizontally entered the wolf’s mouth, extending its corners. Aleera’s hand flew to her mouth again. Roaring, the creature threw Kazmer twenty feet through the air – his boots caught the top of Vidor’s head, sending the younger man falling head-over-boots. Kazmer’s back hit a tree trunk near Aleera, and he landed on one knee and hand. The party was closing in on the monster, firing furiously. The creature swung its arms seemingly-blindly. Villagers approached with another net, but the wolf backhanded them into the air. They smacked into a tree directly above Aleera – a body fell hard on her back a moment later. Barely stopping herself from crying out, Aleera pushed the limp body off, horrified.

“ _ALEERA_!” Head above the shrub, Aleera looked in Vidor’s direction, seeing him on the ground looking urgently at her. A second later, she looked back at the wolf – its yellow eyes were looking straight at her. “ _RUN_!” The monster roared, showing its oversized fangs. Scrambling to her feet, Aleera horizontally ran on the sloped ground. She heard people yelling, heard the wolf’s vicious snarling and thumping on the earth. Looking sideways, Aleera saw the wolf break through the party’s ranks, running on four limbs towards her with ferocious power. Elena ran horizontally into the wolf’s path, bending her knees to skid along the ground. She stabbed her shining scabbard upward just as the wolf shot over her. Screeching, the werewolf crashed head-first into a tree eight feet behind Aleera. Aleera didn’t stop running. After five seconds, she noticed the monster wasn’t making any sound and looked over her shoulder. Her run slowed. The wolf-creature was crumpled at the tree trunk’s bottom, unmoving. Villagers and gypsies rushed forward, crowding it.

“Aleera?!” Aleera turned, her eyes meeting Elena’s – she was still on her knees thirty feet away, staring. “Oh, God…” Rising, Elena sprinted straight towards Aleera. The brown-haired twin reached her in about four seconds – she pulled Aleera into a one-armed embrace, bloody scabbard hanging to the ground. “Are you alright?!” Her voice was choked with emotion. Chin on Elena’s shoulder, Aleera opened her mouth but couldn’t think of any answer. Her head felt wild and numb, and she simply returned Elena’s embrace. Around the trees, Aleera saw gypsies and villagers crying triumphantly. She saw her father, pistol in one hand, staring straight at her – he’d never looked so pale with horror.

“That creature,” Aleera said, remembering. She pushed out of Elena’s arms. “Is it dead?! Is i-?” Words stuck in her throat. The crowd had slightly broken, revealing a white-haired old man’s stabbed, naked body by the tree trunk. Aleera stared for a few seconds, before her father entered her vision’s edges, walking towards the body. He shot her a sideways look that seemed like a mix of sternness and unusual fright.

* * *

Directly after the beast’s death, Kazmer thanked the villagers and gypsies for their help. The Valerious helped to dismantle the cage and remove the ropes over seven minutes, before all the party broke up and the Valerious returned home. Kazmer said nothing during the ride. Immediately after returning the horses to their stables, he threw Castle Valerious’ front doors open and marched in, his daughters and nephew following behind him.

“Uncle, we-” Kazmer raised a hand for silence, cutting Vidor off. Aleera, entering behind Vidor, couldn’t see her father’s face with his back turned, and immediately felt anxious.

“You saw us,” Kazmer murmured, deep voice sounding forlorn. He turned his head, and the look he had, Aleera was just as unused to as his expression in the woods – his bearded face was anguished, brows sloping and eyes nearly wet. Aleera would’ve felt a twinge of regret for causing him this pain, if not for the previous night’s talk.

“ _I_ will explain everything to her,” Elena said, stepping beside Aleera and putting a hand on her shoulder. Her voice was soft but firm. Kazmer’s eyes shifted between the twins once.

“Good. You do that.” He said, before turning and marching towards the armoury. Vidor glanced at Elena.

“Go,” she told him gruffly. He shot Aleera a look she thought seemed slightly apologetic, before following his uncle. “Come with me.” Still wearing Elena’s hunting clothes – making them look like doppelgangers – Aleera followed Elena through the castle halls to the main living room. “Wait here,” Elena ordered before promptly exiting again through the room’s archway. Aleera went to the two opposing armchairs in the room’s centre and sat, wringing her hands with uncertainty. A few minutes passed before Elena returned, carrying a bronze tray holding a teapot, cup and a glass of brandy. Aleera couldn’t say it didn’t seem slightly ridiculous, seeing her sister in slightly blood-stained hunting clothes, serving drinks. Elena placed the tray on Aleera’s armchair, then promptly went to the fireplace. Taking the flint and striker from the mantel, Elena got a flame lit in the hearth with one harsh strike – Aleera had always wondered how she did that. Going back to the armchair, Elena lifted the pot and filled the cup, then wordlessly handed the cup to Aleera. She took it, and Elena took the brandy glass and sat in the opposite armchair, crossing one leg above the other. They both took a first sip of their drinks.

“Those stories you heard from the villagers when we were younger, that Mother and Father told you were made up,” Elena spoke first, “they’re true.” Aleera had two hands on her teacup, eyes slightly wide. “That monster you saw me kill today was a werewolf. A man who’d been bitten by another werewolf and turned into a monster.” Elena sipped again. “The stories about Count Dracula, the Valerious who became a monster, are true as well.” From there, Elena told Aleera about Valerious the Elder’s vow that forbade their House’s souls from entering Heaven until they destroyed Dracula – which disturbed Aleera – and their family’s war against Dracula to save their souls.

“Dracula seeks to destroy our house because our family wants to destroy him?” Aleera asked.

“That’s what we think,” Elena said, smiling bitterly. She twirled her near-empty glass. “It would help us if we knew how to kill him and not just his servants.”

“…Why was I kept unaware of all this?” Aleera asked, outraged.

“I asked that when we were children,” Elena said. Directly meeting Aleera’s gaze, she said: “It’s because Mother and Father wanted you to be happy.” Aleera’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“What?” she murmured.

“They wanted one of us to grow up and die in bliss, believing there weren’t any monsters around us who wanted to kill us,” Elena said, leaning forward. She sipped her glass, then twirled it, staring at its contents almost-absently. “They thought if you never knew about all of this you would never be tainted by all the death and suffering that has plagued our father, and his father and siblings before him. Most of our aunts and uncles were killed before their twenty-fifth year, and Vidor’s parents died days after he was born.” She looked at Aleera’s face. “I said it wouldn’t last until you were an old woman, but Father and Mother wouldn’t hear it.” Aleera stared. Then her eyes slowly fell from Elena to the floor. A spiral of emotion slowly twisted inside her – most of all, she felt _furious_ at her parents for keeping this from her, immediately imagining scenarios she thought they hadn’t considered, where they and her sister and cousin were murdered by these monsters and she would never know what had happened. Her jaw clenched.

“Don’t be angry with Mother and Father, they only wanted to keep you away from this,” Elena said softly, leaning forward and taking Aleera’s free hand in her hands. “Besides – it is _my_ job to be angry at them, not yours.” After a pause, Aleera couldn’t help giggling slightly, while Elena smiled. Aleera continued smiling for several seconds, before another thought occurred to her and she felt she had to ask.

“Elena… why did Mother and Father lie to me, instead of you or Vidor?” Aleera asked. Elena wasn’t smiling, but didn’t outright frown either. Reading Elena’s eyes, Aleera thought they both knew why though Elena wouldn’t dare speak it, and it made Aleera’s heart sink slightly further. Their parents thought Aleera wasn’t as good as the other two. She and Elena had always suspected they thought so, even if it hadn’t come between the two. Aleera had had trouble learning to walk as an infant and had needed their parents’ intervention. In any dispute she, Elena and Vidor had been privy to she’d always been the third-mentioned child. And her parents had always subjected her to stricter rules – not simply confining her to the house and forbidding her to hunt, but rules about restrictions on manner, freedom and choice, as though she needed more rules than the other two. Watching Elena and Vidor spar, with Elena often winning, Aleera hadn’t thought she’d ever achieve that same level of physical skill, which hadn’t been nurtured in her. Aleera sat for some time, these thoughts flowing through her almost involuntarily, before she thought of something else.

“Elena, about Dracula,” Aleera said, meeting Elena’s gaze.

“What about him?” Elena asked, tone darkening slightly.

“Did you ever fight him directly?” Aleera pressed.

“Once, when we were fourteen,” Elena murmured, looking at the floor. “Two monster-hunters from Amsterdam who were friends with our grandfather, tried to capture one of Dracula’s brides. Father tried to stop them, and I followed him. What the vampires did to those men was horrible. I saw Dracula step near the men’s trap – a broken ring of rosemary that would be closed and set on fire once he was inside – and I fought him on my own, trying to get him in.” Elena half-scowled. “I didn’t stand a chance. I barely got away.”

“How did you get away?” Aleera asked, half-mesmerised yet also slightly disturbed. Remembering the stories about Dracula, she would’ve thought it would be impossible for anyone to escape him.

“He disarmed me,” Elena said. “Father created a distraction, and I ran.” Aleera’s brow furrowed slightly, feeling that explanation didn’t fit.

“I haven’t known you to be easily disarmed before,” Aleera said. Elena caught exactly what she was thinking.

“Dracula. Is a _monster_.” Elena said. “I do not wish to talk about it further. But there is more you should know, Aleera. Do you remember the stories that Dracula can see and hear through his monsters’ senses?”

“Yes?” Aleera said. Elena leaned forward slightly, serious.

“Vidor said the werewolf saw you, and he yelled at you,” Elena said. “Which means Dracula may have also seen and heard.” A shiver ran down Aleera’s spine at the idea. “If Dracula thinks you are precious to our family, the vampires will now be after you, which means it’s very important that you are careful when you leave the castle. The castle is protected by charms which keep most evil things out, so you are safest here.” Aleera still didn’t like the idea of being confined to the castle, she liked even less that Elena was now saying she should stay, but she wasn’t inclined to object with what she now knew.

“What about you?” Aleera asked. “Am I supposed to stand by while you risk your life?” Elena shrugged and smirked slightly.

“I’ve been killing werewolves and trolls since I was thirteen,” she said, before downing the rest of her glass. “I am at no more risk of dying than Father. Besides, there are worse things than death. Being tortured for one, becoming one of Dracula’s monsters for another.” Elena put her glass back on the tray. Aleera looked from the tray back at Elena – she’d grown up being taught there were worse things than death, but she’d struggled to grasp the idea as a little girl. Aleera knew Elena saw what was going on in her head. “I have an idea.” She leaned forward. “We make a vow. I will do everything to make sure you never have to meet Dracula or his creatures, but if that fails – and if the monsters attempt to condemn one or both of us to a worse fate than death – we will die before allowing that to happen.” After a second’s pause, Aleera nodded. Elena removed a small knife from her boot, opening her hand. Aleera gave her hand, and Elena cut the palm as gently as possible. Then Elena cut her own hand, and the sisters placed the palms over each-other.

“We make a vow,” Elena said.

“We make a vow,” Aleera followed. The fireplace crackled between the two.

“Should the bane of our house, Count Dracula…”

“Should the bane of our house, Count Dracula…”

“…or his wicked servants seize our bodies or souls…”

“…or his wicked servants seize our bodies or souls…”

“…with their arms or their tools of torture or their curses…”

“…with their arms or their tools of torture or their curses…”

“…we shall die before suffering the fate they would bring us.”

“…we shall die before suffering the fate they would bring us.”

The bleeding palms separated. Aleera cradled hers while Elena barely acknowledged hers. Aleera knew this was very serious – they’d only made a blood vow once before as children.

* * *

After the encounter with the werewolf, Aleera had stopped asking about her family’s hunting business beyond being concerned about their safety, and she didn’t wish to accompany them anymore. She now dutifully cared for her mother when the others were hunting. Ten days later, Aleera was lounging on the living room’s armchair, the fire casting the room in yellow while rain pattered against the dark window-panes. She’d already consumed her evening meal, given her mother hers and ensured all the used crockery and cutlery were washed, which left her lounging and reading a book, but finding little interest. She was waiting to see her family return from the hunt they’d left on in the evening, and was starting to grow worried. They’d rarely been gone on an evening hunt until this late after sunset. A loud tapping echoed in the room, making Aleera’s head shoot up – knocking at the front doors. But her family never knocked before entering, which meant a visitor – perhaps an unwelcome one.

Wearing her daywear dress, Aleera went to the armoury – the candle she held encased her in an illuminating orb as she traversed the dark hallway. The door-knock repeating almost-rhythmically every ten seconds. Aleera removed the nearest mace to the armoury entrance, then exited, walking down the corridors. The knocking sounded frighteningly loud when Aleera was in the torch-lit front hall, approaching the doors – she thought it must’ve been made by a strong hand. That made Aleera slow the closer she came to the door, practically stalking forward once she was within four feet. She put the mace on the floor beside the door, then slowly reached her now-free hand towards the black-painted door handle. The knocking repeated once more. Aleera grasped the handle, turned and opened the door.

“Pardon me!” said a man’s voice, loud and clear. In the blackness beyond the door, Aleera didn’t see anything until a lightning-flash revealed the black-clad figure, standing short of the threshold. “I believe I am lost.” Raising the candle in the half-open door, Aleera’s mind stopped momentarily. In its light, she saw a worn-looking yet handsome face with thick eyebrows. Rainwater was running down it, and the stray dark strands on either side stuck to the face gorgeously. The man wore a distressed-seeming expression, eyes narrowed and mouth slightly ajar, yet something about his blue eyes seemed alluring and fierce. Realising she was staring, Aleera broke eye contact. “The castle is near the road I was travelling on. Is this Bargau?”

“I’m afraid it isn’t,” Aleera said. “You are in Vaseria. Bargau is sixty miles north.”

“I see,” the man said, sounding stoically bitter. “I had hoped to reach Bargau before nightfall, but apparently my driver is an imbecile.” The man turned his head at the sentence’s second half, glancing over his shoulder.

“So it would seem,” Aleera said, grinning and instantly feeling drawn to this man. Looking past him, in a lightning-flash she saw a horse-pulled carriage in front of the village houses. Looking back at the man, she saw he was smiling very-handsomely, suddenly unaffected by the rain.

“My driver and myself need shelter from this rain,” the man said.

“I am sorry to hear that, as you will not find many a reputable inn that will cater to coaches in these parts,” Aleera said, grinning despite herself.

“Then I thank you for saving me from a vain search,” the man said, face seeming miserable though his voice was clear. “I shall bid you a good evening and trouble you no more.” He bowed again, then turned on the doorstep. Aleera saw him stalking away in another lightning-flash.

“Wait, I do not know your name!” Aleera called after him. She saw the man instantly freeze, back to her. She didn’t know why, but she wanted to see more of that face.

“Forgive me, that was most rude of me,” the man’s voice said, before his face re-entered Aleera’s candle’s sphere of light. “I am Baron Béla Karloff. I must beg forgiveness for my breach of manners, and ask who it is I am speaking to.” Aleera smiled, practically drinking in his cold blue eyes.

“Princess Aleera, of the House of Valerious,” she said, making a slight curtsy despite having a candle in one hand.

“I am entertaining royalty?” the Baron asked, eyes widening.

“In honesty, my House is merely old and reputable nobility,” Aleera said. Looking at his eyes again, she was aware it took some effort to break contact. She quickly looked him up and down in the candlelight, seeing he was dressed entirely in black, wearing a traveller’s coat. “Though I cannot stand by and let any nobleman risk tragedy or injury in a downpour. You and your driver are welcome in my family’s home, and your horses may shelter in our stables.” The man smiled almost-warmly.

Turning his head, he barked: “Take the coach to the stables!” He looked back at Aleera whilst the coach drove away from its former spot. “My driver will not be joining us. I am afraid he does not enjoy the company of people.” Aleera nodded in acknowledgement, then opened the door wider. She watched the Baron step over the threshold into the warmly-lit hall, and Aleera’s last suspicions he was untrustworthy evaporated – Elena had said quite clearly that most evil things couldn’t enter the castle. She pushed the door shut, while the Baron’s eyes roamed the hall and ceiling as he stepped forward, removing his gloves. Behind him, Aleera couldn’t see his face, but got the sense he was looking over every inch of the front hall and the landing overlooking it, making her interested to know what it was that captivated him. He removed his cloak and hung it on the hooks left of the doors. Underneath, he wore all-black clothing – a coat, and knee-length boots.

“The living area is this way,” Aleera said, gesturing with her arm while smiling at the man. Next to him, she clearly saw his coat bore military embroidery. The wet-faced Baron – whose hair seemed even more gorgeous in the torchlight – smiled at Aleera before they walked side-by-side. Aleera held up the candle for when they would get further from the front hall’s torchlight, while the Baron’s hands were clasped behind his back.

“Is it just you who is here?” the Baron asked.

“My father, my sister and my cousin are hunting,” Aleera replied.

“An unusual hour to be engaged in blood-sport,” the Baron remarked.

“I agree,” Aleera giggled, grinning. “They should be back soon. Let us sit by the fire in the meantime.” She didn’t know why, but she just wanted to spend time with this man.

In the living room, the Baron moved with near-slowness to the armchairs, stopping to stand by one.

“Please, sit,” Aleera said. The Baron obeyed, lowering himself onto the armchair slowly. “Must I say where you can sit and stand while you are a guest?”

“Not always,” the Baron growled in a husky tone, which Aleera thought she liked the sound of.

“Allow me to bring you tea,” Aleera said.

“There is no need,” the Baron murmured. “I do not eat or drink at this hour. Do sit with me. Your company is most _delectable_.” Aleera felt slightly irked that her guest had ordered her, but sat on the opposite armchair.

“Your father, I presume he is Kazmer Valerious?” the wet-haired Baron asked, sitting straight-backed with his fingertips linked in front of his knees.

“He is,” Aleera said. Strangely, she felt she didn’t want to talk about her family. “Are you from Transylvania, Baron?”

“You may call me by my given name, Princess,” the Baron said, tone charmingly low-pitched. “My family’s seat is a small village near Brasov. I doubt you have heard of it, it is very obscure.”

“There must be something about it worth telling, _Béla_ – and if I must call you by your first name, then you must call me by mine,” Aleera said, disregarding the slight suspicion in the back of her mind. The Baron’s eyes met hers.

“Snow is on the rocks all year round,” the Baron said. “The population is small, but they know not to break the laws that govern them without expecting punishment.” The Baron leaned backwards very-slightly. “What of Vaseria? How do your family and the other people fare in the winter, _Aleera_?”

Aleera talked about what life was like for the Valerious and villagers, leaving out what she knew about monsters. The Baron seemed consistently interested, face intent as she spoke, and he followed every story with a question. When the conversation returned to her family, Aleera told the Baron when and for how long her family hunted; the domestic upbringing she, her sister and her cousin had received, and her family’s relationship with the villagers. She tried to steer the conversation by discussing hobbies. The Baron said he gained joy from select few things, but listened tentatively when Aleera talked about her love of dancing. At some point while they talked, the rain’s beating on the windows ceased. The Baron was describing a masquerade ball to Aleera in poetic detail, when they heard the front doors thud open.

“My family have returned,” Aleera said, smiling. “You must meet them, Béla. I think my sister would be delighted to meet you.” The Baron smiled charmingly, rising to his feet. Not two seconds later, the living room doors were thrown open, Kazmer striding in.

“Aleera-” He froze on seeing the man and woman. Appearing behind him, Vidor and Elena also froze. Brows furrowed, Aleera looked at Béla, who was smiling pleasantly. Suddenly, Kazmer unsheathed his broadsword with lightning-speed.

“ _ALEERA, GET AWAY_!” he bellowed. Béla’s irises glowed. Eyes widening, Aleera made to run backwards, but faster than she could blink, Béla pulled her back to him and lunged his mouth at her neck. Aleera screamed, feeling fiery pain spread through her neck as he _bit into her_.

“ _NO_!” Kazmer roared, all three Valerious running forward. In the split-second Kazmer came within a foot, Béla – barely lifting his head – grabbed and snapped his neck with one hand, a _crack_ sounding in the living room. Aleera fell to the floor, like a tossed-aside toy. Béla threw her father’s body like it weighed nearly nothing, knocking Elena and Vidor backwards. Crying out, Aleera rolled onto her side, feeling hot blood make her daywear stick to her skin. She began pushing herself up with her hands.

“ _ENTER, MY BRIDES_!” Béla bellowed, thunderously enough to be heard by an entire opera auditorium. Aleera could’ve sworn she heard a thunderclap immediately follow. Elena and Vidor pushed off Kazmer’s body, just as the window shattered and a half-bat, half-human monstrosity flew in. It arced sharply, hind feet brutally kicking Aleera back to the floor. Arcing, the creature latched bat-like onto the wall beside the broken window. It hissed ferally at the room’s other occupants, grey-white skin turning to pink flesh and white-and-gold robes. A second bat-creature flew in, hovering in the room’s centre and hissing at Elena and Vidor – Aleera saw womanly dark hair, and the shapes and curves of a woman’s torso.

“ _GO_!” Elena shoved Vidor towards the exit, then turned back to the room, broadsword raised. “ _SAVE HER_!” she yelled when Vidor lingered. He sprinted out of the hall. The second bat flew back outside as fast as it had entered. Weakly craning her neck, Aleera saw the first creature – now a blonde woman wearing loose, gold and white materials – crouching sideways with her heels on the wall. She was smiling sweetly at Elena – then her mouth opened unnaturally wide, two fangs lengthening and eyes changing, an ungodly snarl emerging. Elena charged, yelling. Screeching, the blonde pushed off the wall and became the half-bat again, swooping at Elena and kicking with clawed feet. Elena was knocked ten feet backwards into the wall. Landing on her knees, Elena got up, swinging her scabbard just as the bat-woman came upon her. The blade sliced, and the bat-woman cried out. She hovered so close her wings could bat Elena, striking out with clawed hands and feet. Elena furiously deflected each blow, but the bat-woman was relentless.

* * *

Vidor bolted down the moonlit corridor, ignoring the shadow that very-briefly blocked each window’s moonbeam behind him. When it passed the closest window behind him, he fired his pistol sideways at the next window. He heard no cry but didn’t stop. He rounded a corner, running through more moonbeams. Suddenly, a pale-grey arm smashed through the window in front of him, taloned hand grabbing his neck and slamming his body into the window’s wall. Verona hissed, face a foot from Vidor’s. He met her gaze while removing a knife from his belt, before slashing at her arm. Snarling, Verona recoiled, throwing him like a ragdoll at the adjacent wall. His head took the blow and stars swam in Vidor’s vision, slowly sliding to the floor while Verona’s shadow flew away. It seemed like Vidor was only on the floor for two seconds, before the sounds of glass breaking and his aunt screaming fully roused his mind.

“No…!” he wheezed, the sound rousing him like any child’s mother in distress would have. Quickly getting up, Vidor shot full-speed down the corridor. He practically smashed his body into the door at the far end, throwing it wide open. He stopped past the threshold. His aunt was being held in a sitting-up position, Verona in her gown-dressed human form crouched atop her. Removing her face from the woman’s neck, Verona hissed at Vidor, eyes glowing blue, lips dark with blood.

* * *

Aleera didn’t know how blood loss could sharpen her hearing, but she clearly heard her mother screaming. Weak on the floor with blood pooling around her shoulder, utter anguish welled inside her, a slight whine escaping her. She looked at Elena and the bat-woman – the _vampire bride_ , she’d long guessed. They were still parrying viciously, slowly navigating from the living room doorway towards the opposite wall. The bride suddenly kicked at Elena’s abdomen, sending her reeling six feet backwards – Aleera thought the back of Elena’s head slammed into the wall just before her back. Dropping to the floor, the bride became human again, wings turning to hanging veil-pieces. She hissed quietly at Elena, who slowly slid down the wall, blood running over her temple. Aleera looked at the Baron – Count Dracula – standing three feet away, back to her. Then she looked back at Elena lying dazed, and the bride standing crouched like a cat waiting to strike, and a fierce anger surged inside Aleera. Her weakness and neck-wound were forgotten, and she started pushing up on her hands. Dracula abruptly turned his head and hissed when she was on one hand and knee. He kicked out, brutally knocking Aleera straight into the opposite wall from Elena, near the doorway.

Vision swimming as she slid down the wall, Aleera didn’t know how much time passed before her mind refocused – it could’ve been seconds or an hour. She saw Elena stagger to her feet, scabbard in hand. Elena looked at the blonde bride, who was closer to Aleera, for five seconds, then ran. The bride transformed and pounced. She lifted Elena by her arm and shoulder, clawed foot twisting the sword-arm’s wrist, making Elena drop the scabbard. Then, hovering, she grasped Elena’s shoulders with both clawed hands and threw her at the ceiling. Elena hit it near a corner, then fell twenty-five feet, crashing into a corner table near Aleera. The barrel that had been sandwiched in the corner crashed to the floor, liquid spilling. The strong-smelling liquid sloshed over Aleera, burning when it touched her neck puncture. Yellow eyes hellish, the bride-creature hissed at Elena, who groaned atop the shattered table.

“Enough,” Dracula said commandingly, walking forward. The bride briefly looked at him, then glided gracefully to the armchairs, perching atop one in her human form. Aleera watched helplessly as the Count stalked towards her crumpled sister.

“ _Elena_ …” the Count murmured hoarsely, crouching. With a cry, Elena suddenly swung her arm, glinting dagger in hand, but Dracula caught her wrist like it was nothing. Putting his other hand’s fingers under her chin, he forced her to her feet. Elena had blood at her mouth’s corner.

“Let my sister go, Count!” she growled defiantly. Holding Elena’s gaze a second longer, Dracula turned his head slowly, looking at Aleera like she were someone else’s lost trinket.

“I think it’s a little late for that, _my dear_ ,” the Count murmured, growling the last two words huskily as he looked back at Elena. “Don’t you?” Aleera groaned slightly, her bite-wound stinging. She tried to move her hand towards it, but it slid across the wine-dark floor at a snail’s pace, more of her strength disappearing every minute. Elena spat at Dracula’s face. Jaw and teeth transforming, he screeched inhumanly for two seconds, then changed back. For two seconds, he looked like he were holding back something terrible, then he chuckled darkly. In one swift movement, he violently pulled Elena into a ballroom dip, hand on her back, making her cry sharply.

“ _How… did you get in_?” Elena growled the words out, sounding strained. Dracula grinned wickedly, then looked at Aleera.

“I must thank your sister for giving me invitation back into my family’s home,” he said. Breathing becoming laboured, Aleera listened in helpless shock, eyes meeting Dracula’s. Talking to Elena again, he said, “Invitation is a powerful thing to creatures that are like me. With it, we can step on private buildings, hallowed ground, and even through _white magic_ spells, _unhindered_.” Dracula sharply reversed the dip, holding Elena to his body, chest-to-chest, her head on his shoulder, hands joined. He looked at Aleera again, blue eyes she had thought charming now icy enough to freeze. “I must also thank you, Aleera, for giving me _her_.” He slowly lowered Elena into another dip, releasing her hand and tracing a finger from her jawbone, through her clothing over her cleavage. Elena groaned uncomfortably. Aleera mentally shouted, begged her sister to do something, resist him, but nothing happened.

“Oh, yes, her head was so full of interesting facts, Elena,” Dracula growled. “Your father and cousin’s favourite hunting weapons and why. When you go hunting for me and for how long.” Removing a knife from her boot, Elena tried to stab at Dracula’s head – he blocked it and twisted her wrist, the knife falling away. “Though I don’t think any of that sensitive knowledge will matter after tonight,” he growled. The blonde bride gave a wicked laugh, pretty face grinning dementedly. Aleera watched Dracula bring his face to the side of Elena’s neck, nose practically touching her flesh. He hissed an intake of air as though tasting it.

“Your flesh… tastes unlike any I have known for _centuries_ , Elena,” Dracula groaned, open lips at the curve of her jawbone. Suddenly, Aleera was yanked upwards by her hair, making her body explode with pain – the blonde bride had appeared beside her and disappeared from the armchair, fingers curled through Aleera’s hair, her heel planted on Aleera’s back so her spine arched painfully. Grinning, the bride lowered her head to Aleera’s wounded neck-side, blonde ringlets tickling Aleera’s flesh. Cold needles stung Aleera’s neck and made her wince as the bride’s tongue and teeth teased the flesh wound. Dracula grinned wickedly.

“I remember our first meeting well, Elena,” Dracula murmured, leaning to sniff her neck’s flesh. Grinning maliciously, he said: “And I know naked desire when I see it in someone’s eyes, as it was in yours, the very first time I saw your face.” Aleera’s eyes widened slightly, the bride’s wound-teasing momentarily becoming insignificant. “When all you had ever seen of me was me as I _appear_ , not me killing or dismembering – when you’d just seen _me_.” Eyes closed, Dracula ran his nose and open lips on Elena’s neck, making her cry out slightly. The bride momentarily laughed next to Aleera’s head, also watching. “I am looking for my final bride, Elena. Someone strong, and beautiful.” Raising his head, Dracula’s jaw and teeth started transforming. Elena’s eyes trailed on her upside-down head, then found Aleera’s, gazes locking. Elena looked at the floor – the vast wine-puddle underneath them all. Aleera’s wide eyes flit back to Elena’s. The vow echoed in her head. _Should the bane of our house… seize or bodies or souls… we shall die before suffering the fate they would bring us_. In one swift move, Elena removed a pistol and fired at the floor. The bullet bounced, producing a white spark, and flames started spreading with floodwater-like speed.

In just a few seconds, flames engulfed Elena and Dracula, the vampire screaming. Hissing, the bride recoiled, and Aleera saw the flames racing fast towards her face. The instinct to not die screamed and rattled against a cage inside Aleera, competing with the vow’s words. One second before the fire would reach the wall, Aleera pushed and rolled sideways out of the wine. A wall of flames rose off the floor, engulfing the entire corner and nearly a quarter of the living room’s space. Dracula’s roar suddenly stopped. A flaming figure stepped clear of the fire, carrying another burning form. With one rough roll of its shoulders, the flames on the figure hissed and vanished all at once, leaving a charred, walking skeleton wearing Dracula’s clothing. Hair sprouting from its scalp and flesh reappearing, it looked at the body it held. When his face was half-regrown, Dracula tossed back his head, making a horrible sound that was a mix of a man’s wail and a monstrous shriek. The sound made Aleera want to cringe, assaulting her ears.

Dracula looked almost-sorrowfully at the bald, blackened corpse. Then he let it fall with half-reverent slowness. Head turning, his cold blue eyes were trained on Aleera. She thought his unscathed face looked darker than ever before in the smoke and shadow from the fire. The face that had first smiled pleasantly at her, then looked at her like she were a minor trinket, now glared with a strange mix of resignation and desire.

“It seems I will have to settle for second best,” Dracula murmured, voice ice-cold and stone-hard. Slowly, he stepped towards the wheezing woman.

* * *

It wasn’t until Verona’s winged form was flying back into Castle Valerious that Vidor’s head burst through the water’s surface. He gasped for air under the wooden privy built over the river, then drew in and exhaled shuddering breaths under the freezing cold’s assault. Turning his head, he stared at Castle Valerious, standing above the wooden houses – orange firelight was now flickering in several of its lower windows. A stone of grief worked its way down Vidor’s heart, remembering his aunt and uncle’s deaths and seeing Dracula bite Aleera.

Vidor remained there for ten minutes in total, until he saw the three vampires’ winged shapes exiting the castle and flying to the mountains, before he waded back to shore. The night air did little to banish the cold as Vidor trudged into the village, back towards his family home, snow crunching under his boots.

After Vidor had seen Verona kill his aunt, she’d thrown him backwards into the hallway. He’d tried slowing her by firing a bullet into her eye, then he’d leapt from the nearest window, the shrubbery below breaking his fall. He’d run and dived into the river, one second before Verona had flown out of the broken window. Staying under the water’s surface, Vidor had watched Verona fly above the water looking for him, before she’d left – for vampires couldn’t resist running water bodies’ currents however strong they were, nor could they see through dark running water as well as anything else.

The first thing Vidor did was march into the snow-floored village square.

“Everyone, I am Prince Vidor of the Valerious!” he shouted, standing in the square’s centre by the naked well-hole, guarded by a giant cross. He was surprised at how authoritative like his uncle he sounded. He looked around at the wooden buildings’ first-floor windows – heads were appearing in some of the windows, candle-light even began to glow in a couple others. “Please, your prince needs your help!”

* * *

Vidor had needed to truthfully assure the villagers that the vampires had left the castle and would not take retribution for the villagers’ defiance, but twenty-five minutes after he’d entered the village square, he had a band of villagers rushing with him to Castle Valerious, equipped with buckets of water from the well. The fire wasn’t nearly as severe as Vidor had feared – it had only broken out in the living room, and the stone walls had prevented it from spreading. The flames didn’t take long to beat back, with the villagers refilling their buckets in the river as soon as they were emptied. Vidor saw the extra charred husk in the living room and he recognised Elena’s gun-holsters on it, but there was no sign of Aleera. As soon as the flames were gone, Vidor was momentarily petrified – not only his uncle, aunt and Aleera, but Elena was gone as well – he was completely alone. When the flames were wholly extinguished, Vidor ordered the nearest village-man to send for the priest. He wasn’t sure how Dracula had entered the castle, but he had a hunch he’d been given invitation like he’d given his brides, which meant Vidor would need a holy man to help re-cast the castle’s protective charms to keep them out. His uncle had been better at book-related matters, but Vidor would have to make do.

Immediately after the village-man left to get the priest, Vidor ordered everyone else outside. Equipping himself with a torch, he scoured the castle’s dark halls and chambers – which dim grey light was beginning to filter into as morning approached – his heart encased in stone for now. Aleera had been bitten, which meant even if she was still alive, she would join the undead if Vidor didn’t find her. Vidor double-checked, then triple-checked every corner of the castle, but he found nothing – his aunt’s corpse was still in her bed, but there was no sign of Aleera anywhere. In the late morning, after the castle had been fully re-charmed, Vidor told the priest outside Castle Valerious’ front door to spread word of Aleera’s disappearance – he warned the man she’d been bitten by Dracula, and made it very clear he wanted to be informed when and if she was found.

For the rest of the grey morning, Vidor was aware of how quiet the castle now was, how _devoid_ of the presences he’d known all his life. He could accept and mourn Elena’s death and his aunt and uncle’s, but Aleera’s disappearance stayed with him. Either she’d fled herself or the vampires had taken her, those were the only possible explanations, and Vidor suddenly wished he’d looked more closely when the vampires had flown away. If the vampires had taken her… the thought made Vidor, who’d been pacing in Aleera’s empty bedchamber, suddenly collapse to his knees in the grey-white morning light, eyes wide and staring at nothing. He prayed to God that that hadn’t happened, that he could still save her from the undead’s fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you might have guessed, I’m very-much infatuated by the idea that Aleera is a Valerious turned Dracula’s bride, even if I don’t think the internet-talk calling her Anna and Velkan’s sister is true. :) :)
> 
> Also, I’ve been curious among other Van Helsing mysteries to know what indeed Anna did to Aleera in a past life, and hopefully that slightly came across in this chapter. Aleera-mistressofallevil was right, there does seem to be something more with Aleera’s grudge against Anna. :) :)


	8. Dracula (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand, last but not least, for the story’s last two chapters we have the big bad monster himself. :)

**Transylvania, 1462**

Two armoured horses charged side-by-side, their hooves’ sound almost rivalling the battlefield’s screams and sword-clash noises. Yelling furiously, the left-hand horse’s rider swung his broadsword at an enemy swordsman – wearing a metal turban helmet, below which chainmail protected his face and neck – who’d run at his side. The right-hand rider saw an archer ready to fire - he raised his bloody sword, the arrow bouncing off the blade. As the horses’ path curved, the right-hand rider swung his sword at a turban-helmet who’d been gutting a downed soldier. Pushing further ahead than his partner, the left-hand rider slowed, then raised a gauntlet-clad hand – his partner behind him also slowed. He pushed up his faceplate, angular face’s brown eyes scanning the stabbing, clashing ground-warriors and scattered horses. In two seconds he detected the unremarkable turban-helmet headed in the opposite direction, looking lost among the fighting ground-soldiers and occasional running horses.

“There!” the rider shouted. Re-lowering his faceplate, he took off, partner at his tail. The turban-helmet figure was skidding slightly leftward and rightward, to avoid fresh corpses and clashing pairs that stumbled its way. Looking over its shoulder, it saw the riders approaching and started moving faster. A horse bolted horizontally in front of the lone turban-helmet, who grabbed on by its saddle. Pushing the rider off, the figure took the reins, now moving at roughly-equal speed to its pursuers. Several ground-soldiers tried attacking the rogue turban-helmet, but it deflected with kicks to their helmets and blades’ flat sides as its horse ran.

“We can’t keep up!” the left-hand rider yelled, slashing at a ground-soldier. The right-hand rider raised his broadsword and other arm, pulling his sword arm back and pointing both arms horizontally like he were aiming a spear. After the left-hand rider cut down three enemies, the right-hand threw the sword - shooting in a straight line, it angularly stabbed through a bare patch on the turban-helmet’s horse’s neck. Its front legs collapsed, back end going above its head. The turban-helmet was thrown twenty feet forward, crashing to the mud. The riders didn’t slow their horses, but jumped off. Seeing them, the turban-helmet grabbed a corpse’s sword. The left-hand rider deflected the turban-helmet’s swing, then harshly kicked him back into the earth.

“Greetings, Adrian,” the other rider said, voice thick with an Eastern European accent. His partner tore off the rogue’s helmet and pulled the chainmail neck down, revealing a slightly-tanned, unshaven face with sallow eyes. During a slight pause, another turban-helmet lunged at the accented rider, and was almost-instantly cut down. The angular-faced rider, grabbing the false Ottoman’s chainmail, pulled him threatening close.

“Where is it?!” he shouted threateningly over the raging battle-noise. When the rogue’s lips remained shut for two seconds, the rider punched him, and his body went limp with a sickening crack. Two more turban-helmets attacked – the accented man cut down one, his companion slew the other.

“Put him down!” the accented rider said commandingly, hurriedly dragging a corpse. His partner obeyed, and he threw the corpse over the unconscious man, then added another.

“You had better remember this spot!” the angular-faced rider yelled urgently.

“I always remember!” the accented man replied. Five seconds and two corpses later, the rogue turban-helmet was wholly buried. The horseless riders barely looked at the heap before raising their swords and rushing into the battle.

* * *

Helmet-less soldiers were gathered in small circles about the field, small fires driving the night off. Paying them no heed, the accented rider wound around them towards the tent. Helmetless – but retaining his dirt-caked armour – the rider’s long dark hair was revealed, cascading down his back. Scrolled-up paper clutched in one hand, the rider’s worn-seeming but handsome facial features were calm except for his blue eyes, which could’ve burned cold. Vladislaus Valerious had been finishing seeing to prisoners besides Adrian – most were politically-useless – when he’d received the letter, and its contents had best displeased him. Remembering Adrian, Vladislaus praised God for ensuring he and his partner had captured him. The order to hunt down Adrian – a high-ranking man in the Vatican – had allegedly come from the Knights of the Holy Order themselves – Vladislaus had heard the Order of the Dragon’s inner-circle members call the Knights a myth, he’d thought them a myth himself until quite recently. Interrogating Adrian while showing him the other prisoners’ executions, Vladislaus had learned Adrian had been seeking to defect to the Ottomans, so he could enslave their soldiers’ wills using the dark-magic texts he’d stolen when he’d fled the Vatican – making Vladislaus all the more thankful to God for ensuring he and his partner had stopped him.

Vladislaus strode to the commander’s-bunks tent. Almost throwing the flap open, Vladislaus saw Gabriel in the poor light by his chrome armour – he was lying on the central of three bunks lining one wall, jerking and making stifled noises in his sleep, mouth a firm line. Vladislaus paused for a moment, then slowly stalked to the bunk adjacent to Gabriel’s and sat, calmly watching. He pitied his friend’s condition, which no medicine man could explain, and he wished God would provide the means of healing it. After two minutes, Gabriel shot up in a sitting position, wavy brown hair sticking slightly to his head. Looking around, he saw Vladislaus’ calm face. A pause followed.

“I was fighting the Umayyads in Iberia,” Gabriel said. “I was one of the first men to emerge from the cave. I killed eleven of them. First with a sword, then when I lost it, I bludgeoned them with rocks from the ground.” Vladislaus said nothing. No-one outside the Vatican, not even Gabriel himself, knew where he’d come from. He said he didn’t remember further back than ten years, when he’d already been at the Vatican, and the Vatican forbade their knowledge of him being shared. Vladislaus didn’t know if Gabriel could have truly been alive during these events, but he’d seen enough weak men in war turn to madness to know what false stories it could make roll of their tongues – not that he thought Gabriel weak or mad.

“My lord!” Vladislaus turned his head. The skinny soldier at the tent entrance quailed under his icy glare, taking a long second before remembering to speak. “A letter from your father has arrived.” He showed the scrolled-up paper. Vladislaus stalked towards the soldier, taking the scroll and unrolling it. His eyes scanned the paper while the soldier stood still.

“You can go,” Gabriel bade the soldier.

“He is not under your command, Gabriel,” Vladislaus said, still reading. He finished five seconds later. “You may leave us.” The soldier turned and marched out quite-quickly. Vladislaus saw Gabriel’s disapproving glare.

“Must you always treat your men so harshly?” Gabriel said, exasperated more than anything else.

“Sternness is key to ensuring the men stay in line,” Vladislaus sighed, exasperated at Gabriel in turn though benevolently. Gabriel looked away, jaw clenched slightly. Though they were brothers in all but blood, Gabriel had never approved of Vladislaus’ more-brutal tactics. “Be glad I am not having my charges impaled or boiled, unlike my cousin in Wallachia.”

“Some of the things we’ve done in the last two wars are hardly what I’d consider God’s work,” Gabriel said. He was one of the few men who could get away with saying that to Vladislaus.

“We _are_ doing God’s work,” Vladislaus said, voice completely resolute. “We are preventing the advance of a mighty heathen enemy, who would snuff out Christendom itself if our defences failed.”

“What does the letter say?” Gabriel asked, seeking a different topic.

“I came here intending to show you another letter, before it arrived,” Vladislaus said, pointing to the discarded letter on the bunk in front of Gabriel. Un-scrolling it, Gabriel’s eyes scanned the lettering – Vladislaus patiently watched his brother’s eyebrows slowly furrow.

“I didn’t think this war would have ended with a peace treaty, after the battle your father was in three days ago,” Gabriel murmured, only surprised.

“It isn’t the first war we’ve seen end this way,” Vladislaus said, voice bitterly dark, thin mouth frowning and eyes icy as he looked at the tent’s wall opposite Gabriel. The thought of ending these conflicts by negotiating with the Turks disgusted him, adding to his thoughts the King of Hungary was unfit.

“And the letter from your father?” Gabriel asked. Vladislaus looked back.

“He and my brother are immediately returning to Vaseria, and he has called both of us to my family’s seat,” Vladislaus said coolly, looking at the letter as he folded it.

“Why would he call for me also?” Gabriel asked, surprised. Vladislaus looked at him.

“He did not say, but I assume he wishes to meet my sworn brother-in-arms and see if he is a worthy specimen,” Vladislaus said, putting the letter aside. “He must have written this message within hours of being told the war had ended.”

“Being the count, you do not have to answer if you don’t want to,” Gabriel said. Vladislaus admittedly didn’t outright enjoy the thought of seeing his father again.

“A son’s loyalty to his father transcends material power,” Vladislaus said. Then he smiled. “It seems you will at last get to see my birthplace and meet my family.” The edge of Gabriel’s mouth quirked upwards slightly.

“I had hoped those two events would one day happen,” Gabriel murmured.

* * *

Gabriel and Vladislaus’ journey to Vaseria only took five days, though they had to be wary of wolves and bears when camping. Despite having a small guard, both men had worn their armour under their traveller’s cloaks, lest bandits strike unseen with a bow and arrow. They’d travelled northeast from the battlefield, then followed the Eastern Carpathians northward to the Vaseria valley.

As the party passed through the village square, peasants stopped to bow their heads or remove their hats, women and children watched from their huts’ doorways, and voices murmured _The Count_ and _Soldiers_ admiringly. Gabriel looked slightly-sideways at onlookers’ faces, giving them his acknowledgement.

Vladislaus led the party to Castle Valerious’ front gate, Gabriel directly behind him followed by their guard. Seeing a castle guard at a high window disappear, Vladislaus dismounted his horse and let a semi-armoured guard lead it away. In less than a minute, the grate guarding the front door vertically rose in front of the party, then the huge wooden doors were pulled open from the inside. Valerious the Elder stepped out, long grey hair and dented yet intimidating knight’s-armour standing out. He had a stoic face with steely grey eyes, decorated by scars of varying shapes and lengths. Vladislaus noted his father had a new scar on his left cheekbone. His forked beard was so long that his mouth was almost invisible. He wasn’t tall, standing an inch shorter than Vladislaus, but he had a broad-shouldered physique, made intimidating by the way his armoured torso seemed to slightly shrink below the pectorals. Valerious the Elder’s devotion to Christianity couldn’t easily be overstated – in addition to his cross-emblazoned armour, he today wore four crosses around his neck. Vladislaus bowed his head. Valerious stopped in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“My son,” he said in his gravelly voice.

“Father,” Vladislaus said while raising his head, equally stoic.

“Where is Gabriel?” Valerious murmured gruffly, looking over the horses and soldiers. Gabriel dismounted.

“Lord Valerious,” Gabriel said. Vladislaus saw the look his father gave when he was sizing someone up.

“I have heard much of your accomplishments in the defence of the faith,” Valerious said, stepping towards Gabriel. Vladislaus turned his head, and watched Valerious put a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Tell me, how many battles have you won in the last year?”

“Three,” Gabriel said softly. “Including the one in which the thief from Rome was just captured.” Vladislaus’ eyes narrowed very-slightly – Valerious would consider that average.

“Well, any soldier worthy to be sworn as my son’s brother is certainly welcome in my house, and no doubt due to meet my son’s family five years afterwards,” Valerious said. “Come.” He walked to the front doors. Vladislaus looked at Gabriel before they followed Valerious inside. Vladislaus found his brother and sister were standing in the front hall, to greet him and Gabriel.

“Allow me to introduce my siblings to you, my friend,” Vladislaus said before his father, smiling at Gabriel. Valerious the Elder glanced out his eye’s corner. “My middle sibling, Valerious the Younger-” Vladislaus gestured to a tall, burly man, who had dark hair like both his siblings. His beardless face resembled the Elder’s, but he had pale-blue eyes. He nodded his head slightly. “-and my younger sister, Maria.” She had a thin face with high cheekbones, and very dark-brown eyes. Her hair fell in ringlets, and she stood at Vladislaus’ height. She smiled courteously at Gabriel, and he smiled back at her.

* * *

Vladislaus had told Gabriel a small amount about his family home – there was little historically-remarkable, since its foundation a century ago, to tell – then had left Gabriel to speak more with his siblings whilst he and his father discussed matters of state. Valerious the Elder had wanted to hear about how many casualties the Christian army had suffered, what strategies the enemy had employed, and everything about Gabriel that Vladislaus would divulge. He’d also informed Vladislaus that their distant Wallachian cousin, Vlad III, had been arrested and imprisoned by the King of Hungary – whether he was Orthodox or Catholic, they both agreed this was an outrage.

Before dinner, Vladislaus donned a grey doublet and gold breeches, and also wore small golden earrings – he refrained from wearing them on the battlefield, but as a count, they felt to him like a sign of his status that went beyond clothing. Had done so since his father had pierced his ears when he’d been five years old, teaching him to resist pain. At dinner, Gabriel had dressed in a simple peach doublet and dark-grey breeches. The vast dining hall, in addition to the various weapons and the coat of arms above the table’s head, had wooden crosses mounted between every two windows. Dinner usually would have been a quiet affair, but Vladislaus’ father had permitted speaking in spite of Gabriel’s presence.

“Does your horse have a name, Sir Gabriel?” Maria asked, sitting beside Valerious the Younger.

“I can’t say it does,” Gabriel said, sitting next to Vladislaus on the table’s other side. Vladislaus remained quiet, having never particularly cared for little talk. “Not since my second horse died in battle.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Maria said genuinely. “The white-and-black horse I had when I was five years old died when I was twenty. My brother Valerious brought me a new horse three months later, but I said he couldn’t replace her.”

“You believe that an animal is irreplaceable?” Gabriel asked.

“A _loved_ animal,” Maria said, an icy hint entering her voice. “But I believe that love never dies.” Gabriel had an odd, thoughtful expression. “If you had to preserve something that you loved more than anything else, what would you do, Sir Gabriel?”

“I don’t really know,” Gabriel said – Vladislaus found the response suspiciously odd. “I suppose I would do whatever it took to ensure it stays in the world, so long as whatever makes me love it is never destroyed by my efforts.” Maria smiled slightly.

“What do you have to say on the matter, Vladislaus?” Maria asked. Vladislaus looked directly at her.

“I would isolate it from every potential enemy that may take it from me or tarnish its beauty, so that only I can come anywhere near it,” Vladislaus said. He wanted to be removed from this game, which Maria had forced him into when they’d been children.

“Is that not somewhat detached?” Gabriel said.

“It is rational when seeking to prevent an object’s destruction,” Vladislaus said coldly.

“I disagree,” Maria said. “Is there any point keeping something precious locked away, if its beauty can never touch the world again?” Vladislaus didn’t reply, having learned the answer long ago.

“That’s an… interesting view of beauty,” Gabriel murmured, smiling again.

“I have read and heard about so many things in the world that are beyond my reach,” Maria murmured. “I have never seen Rome, the flat lands in the west, or the sea.”

“See those things you shall not,” Valerious barked gruffly, shooting Gabriel a warning look. “There are many dangers to a young maiden between here and there, from common criminals to Turk raiders, to enemies who would readily seize a valuable bargaining chip if they knew who you were.” Maria lowered her eyes submissively, but Vladislaus saw the slight want for defiance that was always in her eyes, the refusal to wholly forsake her opinions when their father talked her down.

“Perhaps…” Gabriel said very cautiously, “there’ll be a day when it _will_ be safe for you to see the west, and the sea. Then your family can show you it.” He looked at the Elder, who had a hard look but wasn’t furious yet.

* * *

In the following days, Valerious the Elder talked with Vladislaus and Gabriel, sometimes separately and sometimes together, regarding the war. Vladislaus now suspected his father had summoned Gabriel partly to determine his competence as a soldier. Vladislaus spent most of his other time addressing matters of state, or practicing his swordsmanship with Valerious the Younger. He’d hoped Gabriel would join him, but Gabriel and Maria continued seeing each-other about once a day – they were often in the castle’s living areas or walking in the grounds, under Valerious the Elder’s watchful gaze, talking. Passing a room they were in, watching from a balcony or window, being in the same room as them; a strange, bitter feeling stirred inside Vladislaus. He started seeking less interaction with Gabriel, spending more time on state matters – it was as if Gabriel suddenly existed no longer as his brother, but as a jester who mocked and spited Vladislaus, who felled him on the battlefield in front of every ally and enemy and desecrated his death. With time, the feeling swelled like an overfed beast.

Fifteen days after returning home, Vladislaus sat at his private study’s desk, the desk’s candle the only light source with the window-shutters sealed. Barely beating back thick shadows, dull yellow light flickered on Vladislaus, whose hands were joined fingertips-to-fingertips in front of him. It was obvious to him what was happening. He’d kept the want locked in a proverbial box and buried several times over – feelings he knew would be so revolting to all around him if they were exposed, they might drive his own father to attempt to slay him. He wanted Maria to be with him, not Gabriel.

Thinking of Gabriel, the closest words that described Vladislaus’ feelings were no longer _friend_ or _brother_ , they were _rival_ , _enemy_ , _thief_. Vladislaus stroked his right hand’s ring with his thumb, looking at its insignia. He’d received it when he and Gabriel had first met five years ago – the day they’d been initiated into the Order of the Dragon, swearing fraternity before they’d properly known each-other. Whatever the method or the consequence, Vladislaus knew he was going to remove Gabriel from Maria’s side. Even his formerly-absolute belief in God’s glory was secondary. Vladislaus couldn’t murder Gabriel in his sleep, as his family would suspect the culprit was in the house when the guards reported no-one had entered or exited. He considered murdering Gabriel and putting the blame on a pair of guards, but his father would personally interrogate the men – and Valerious the Elder had a way of forcing the truth out of lesser men. Pushing Gabriel from a balcony would be so disgustingly pathetic, Vladislaus would deserve to be caught. Hiring an assassin was another option - acquiring a skilled assassin would be impossible unless Vladislaus discovered one by chance, but he could easily find an unknown man willing to carry out cut-throat work for a slightly-large scrap of money. Vladislaus would have to hide his identity, which would be easy if he hired the assassin at night. Deciding this was his best option, Vladislaus spent a few minutes considering details before he had a complete plan.

* * *

After everyone in the castle had retired, Vladislaus donned a black, large-hooded cloak – under which he wore his sword – and exited his chamber. Using the secret passageways in the walls only his family knew about, Vladislaus exited through a mouth in the rock the castle was built on. He entered the village, sticking to the shadows to avoid being conspicuous and minimise the risk the passing villager might see under his hood. Vladislaus picked the second-nearest inn to Castle Valerious – a shabby-looking wooden building with a shutter-less window – and quietly slipped in. Two seconds after he’d entered, an ugly, stout man approached, glaring into his dark hood. When he glared a second too long, Vladislaus slightly pulled back his cloak, showing his sword’s bright-chrome pommel. The man glared before backing off.

Vladislaus took a table in a corner, scanning the inn’s patrons – some quiet and sullen, some laughing and jeering loudly, a couple scuffling near the far corner. Two men sitting together across the inn caught Vladislaus’ eye - they wore partly torn and frayed traveller’s clothes, meaning they likely weren’t local or hadn’t been in Vaseria long. Their faces were grizzled, but calm if miserable-looking. Observing their eyes, Vladislaus saw they both had the look of a killer. Only one of them had a drink, but their body language and shared table suggested they were familiar, so Vladislaus suspected they were a team. Rising from his own table, Vladislaus made his way towards them.

“You two look in need of work,” Vladislaus murmured, grabbing a stool as he approached and taking a seat.

“Perhaps,” one man snarled, showing his browned teeth. “What does it matter to you?”

“I have a job that might interest you – it’s for someone who isn’t well-known here,” Vladislaus murmured. The men’s eyes slightly narrowed in interest. “I want two able-bodied men to kill someone important.” The second man scoffed and raised his glass.

“Find someone else,” he spat. Vladislaus’ eyes slightly narrowed under his hood.

“Do not worry about this person’s importance, I can tell you how to get to him without being seen,” Vladislaus said. The two men looked interested again. Vladislaus brought a hand out from under his cloak, holding a bag the size of his hand. He loosened the string tying the bag, letting the men see the gold coins inside. “I think _this_ will be enough to persuade you?” he murmured hoarsely. The men’s faces softened, looking at the gold like it was the most dazzling thing in the world.

* * *

Maria hadn’t been able to sleep the previous two nights, and was feeling restless again tonight. So she’d taken to wandering in her white nightdress, holding a candle, in the hopes her body would tire. Walking the empty rooms, Maria was concerned about Vladislaus – these last several days since he’d returned home, he’d seemed different, more unwilling to engage in conversation than was usual. She’d talked to Gabriel, and he’d admitted he was concerned about Vladislaus as well, though thinking of Gabriel always eased Maria’s worry slightly. She enjoyed Gabriel’s company, despite – or perhaps in spite of – their disagreements about some subjects. There were times when something he said or his nonchalant tone just made her laugh. She didn’t know how long he would stay in their household – he’d told her he had no lands but the accommodation the Church provided him. Having completed his mysterious assignment in Transylvania, Maria could guess he wouldn’t be able to stay long before either the Church demanded his return or her father decided he’d overstayed his welcome. Maria truly didn’t want Gabriel to leave her side permanently. She’d thought seven days ago that Gabriel had quickly become a dear friend to her, now another thought wiggled into her mind – however foolish and childish it was, since he of course could never make a-

Maria halted in the doorway. Beyond her candle’s glowing orb, she’d seen a blot in the moonlight-crack slipping between the window’s shutters. The blot had been there a moment, then it had moved, scuttling in the direction to her right. The empty guest chamber nextdoor to this room, which was directly nextdoor to Gabriel’s guest chamber. Brows furrowed, Maria wondered if it was a guard, but doubted they’d scamper about like that – which suggested an intruder. Maria thought to call for the guards, but she didn’t yet know there were intruders with certainty – suspicious as the scuttling person was, she had to rule out the possibility it was Gabriel or one of her brothers. The thought she was defenceless held Maria back from advancing, until she considered Gabriel, or that Vladislaus’ chamber was only two rooms down from his with a door from Gabriel’s chamber leading towards it. Had they been awake, Maria wouldn’t have worried about them, but when they were asleep… She promptly withdrew through the doorway behind her, extracting a wall-mounted mace from beside the doorway with her free hand, before re-entering the room. She quietly moved forward, candle held out and mace raised. Silently passing through the moonlight crack, she slowed as she approached the right-hand doorway before crossing the threshold. The next room was empty, but in one of its two doorways – the right-hand one again, nearest the far corner – Maria thought she saw a clothed back for a split second before it vanished. That was the doorway to Gabriel’s chamber. Angling so her mace-wielding fist could shield the candle’s flame from an intruder’s sight, Maria quickly but quietly crossed to the doorway. Slowly, she leaned her head past the doorway’s edge. Squinting as far as she could through the near-darkness, Maria saw _two_ pairs of something shifting about on the floor, near the bed. She thought she saw one of them slowly raise a bent arm holding something.

“Gabriel!” she yelled loudly. She heard startled shuffling. Then a sword being unsheathed, followed by Gabriel’s voice yelling. There was the sound of two metals clashing. A figure suddenly shot from the dark. Maria raised the mace, just before the figure slammed hard into her middle, throwing her to the floor and causing the candle to fall. A hand sprained Maria’s wrist, making her cry out, releasing the mace. In the growing light from the rug burning, Maria saw an ugly man’s face above her, brown teeth bared, eyes filled with hate. A bloodcurdling scream that wasn’t Gabriel’s came from his chamber, making the man turn his head slightly. Thumping footsteps made Maria crane her head, she and the man looking at the way she’d come in – Valerious the Younger appeared, sword in hand, also in nightdress. He observed the sight for barely a second, before yelling and charging. In a one-second movement, the intruder extracted a dulled knife and held it to Maria’s throat, the edge pressing in painfully. Her brother immediately halted. The figure didn’t see Gabriel charge from his chamber, sword raised. Gabriel’s blade sliced downwards through the man’s scalp, liquid spraying out above Maria, who stared in horror. Wrenching his blade out, Gabriel kicked the man off of her – his body hit the slow-burning rug, damaged head a foot from Maria’s.

“Maria, are you alright?!” Gabriel immediately crouched over her. In the candlelight, Maria saw Gabriel wore no nightdress at all, well-developed chest muscles laid bare. Valerious the Younger advanced into the room. Behind Gabriel, Vladislaus emerged through his chamber’s darkness in grey nightdress, blue eyes taking in all three figures, the body and the rug.

“ _GUARDS! FIRE_!” Vladislaus roared into the castle. He rushed to Maria’s side while Valerious the Younger came to Maria’s other side, they slowly helping Maria off the floor.

“What is happening?!” Three heads turned, seeing a nightdress-clad Valerious the Elder arrive through the doorway Maria had come through; sword in hand, scarred face murderous. He took in his three children, and Gabriel standing back from Maria, sword in hand.

“Gabriel saved me,” Maria said. Valerious the Elder’s eyes briefly shifted back to Gabriel, then noticed the body by the growing flames.

“What happened?” he asked, immediately calming.

“I was walking the castle restlessly,” Maria explained. “I saw a shadow move towards Gabriel’s room.” She looked at him. “I followed it. I saw two shapes moving inside. I shouted to wake you before they could…” She trailed off, hanging her head, trying to choke back tears. Despite it being women’s job to shed tears and men’s to appear strong, Maria had never been all that proud of appearing weaker than any man. Gabriel took a step towards her, raising his hand like he wanted to touch her face though he didn’t dare.

“Thank God you’re alright,” Gabriel sighed, putting a hand on her shoulder. She knew he didn’t dare hug her in his undressed state, with her father present. Vladislaus kicked the knife out of the dead man’s hand. Valerious the Elder’s hard grey eyes looked between Gabriel and Maria.

“You have my lifelong gratitude for protecting my daughter, Gabriel,” the Elder said stoically.

“You did well, old friend,” Vladislaus murmured at Gabriel’s side, before turning his icy eyes on the corpse.

* * *

As Vladislaus had expected, his father had launched an investigation at dawn to find the assassins’ employer, taking their bodies into the village to show the locals. He’d returned shortly after midday, having discovered the assassins had been at the inn two nights earlier and hadn’t been locals. He’d guessed they might have been hired by Turks or another noble family, before relentlessly taking information from each and every guard, wanting to know how the men had gotten into the castle. Vladislaus had pointed out the east outer-wall’s bricks were uneven below the first-floor window and it was left un-patrolled for minutes at a time, suggesting the assassins could have climbed up there. Valerious had accepted this explanation. Vladislaus had inwardly squirmed in fury that the assassins had failed. He’d planned to emerge right after midnight – the time he’d told them to kill Gabriel – catch them in the act and silence them both. Their failure also meant he couldn’t hire assassins again, as Gabriel would be on alert afterwards, and his father had doubled the guards’ watch. Considering other ways to remove Gabriel, two days after the failed assassination, Vladislaus watched from the castle’s second floor as Gabriel and Maria strode side-by-side by the river. He couldn’t hear what they said, but when they stopped and turned to face each-other, and Gabriel took Maria’s hands, Vladislaus inwardly fumed to think Gabriel were daring to touch her in such a way.

Another day later, Vladislaus still hadn’t thought of a feasible way to kill Gabriel when his father called the family to dinner. Vladislaus sat beside his brother, and Gabriel and Maria across from them. The dinner was a quiet affair, with Gabriel and Maria saying nothing but exchanging looks – Gabriel had a confident, almost reassuring look, Maria a slightly-less sure look.

“Lord Valerious,” Gabriel said just after the main course had been finished, attracting everyone’s attention. “If I may, I wish to make a serious request of you.” Vladislaus looked at Gabriel, then glanced at Maria – she was practically brimming with anticipation.

“Yes?” Valerious the Elder murmured gruffly, gaze scrutinising.

“I wish to be given your daughter’s hand in marriage,” Gabriel said. Vladislaus’ breathing slowed. Valerious the Younger’s eyes widened before shifting to the table’s end. The Elder was giving Gabriel a very scrutinising glare, making an extremely harsh picture with his scars. Then his hard gaze turned onto Maria.

“Why should I give you her hand?” he asked, gruff voice calm. “You are a holy soldier of Rome who has no lands of his own, Gabriel. What future can you provide for my daughter?” Turning his head slightly, Vladislaus looked at Gabriel. His face was cool and stern, but not brash.

“Though I serve Rome, I have taken no vow of celibacy nor against acquiring lands,” Gabriel said carefully. “I have no homestead, but I am a knight of the Order of the Dragon, with twenty-one victories to credit my career. If you allow me to marry your daughter, I will secure a proper homestead _before_ we are wed.” A pause followed before Gabriel spoke again. “I cannot vow here and now to give her a peaceful, happy future. But I can vow that if I receive your blessing of our marriage, I will strive to build such a future for her; and if I do not receive your blessing, I won’t dishonour your command.” Vladislaus slowly looked back at his father – Valerious the Elder appreciated honesty very much. Maria also looked at him, eyes slightly anxious. Their father’s eyes were still narrowed, but Vladislaus saw by his face’s slightly-relaxed lines his hostility had decreased. The Elder’s jaw clenched.

“Maria is my youngest child, Gabriel,” he said quietly. “I will not have her married to a man without inherited lands, with whom she risks early widowhood.” Gabriel’s eyes lowered slightly. “But you have proven yourself to be a strong man by your accomplishments in battle, and importantly, your pledge suggests you are an _honest_ man. I will not readily sell my daughter into a potentially-poor marriage – but if you fulfil these claims to becoming a fit match _beforehand_ , I will consider it.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Gabriel said, bowing his head slightly. He looked at Maria, sharing a thin smile, then smiled at Vladislaus. Vladislaus stared, looking slightly astonished, then he smiled back, though his eyes had the slightest dark hint. Vladislaus was experiencing an urge to have non-valuable prisoners dismembered while he stood close enough to be drenched in blood.

* * *

Vladislaus stood in his chamber, back straight with hands clasped behind it, staring out the window. He was still as the evening light turned orange-golden, then dark-pink. His face was calm, eyes icy, whilst inside he felt like all his accomplishments were about to be stolen. He’d known what Gabriel and Maria’s growing closeness would lead to in one form or another if it wasn’t killed, but he hadn’t expected it to come so soon, nor had he expected his father to ever consider the match. He had to stop this, but it would be foolish to attempt killing Gabriel again, so soon. In spite of which, Vladislaus was near-desperate – and he didn’t like feeling desperate. Vladislaus thought about confronting Maria, then turned heel and walked from the moonlit chamber; making his way towards Maria’s chamber. Approaching the doorway, he found her standing by her open window, moonlight pouring in around her. She was a picture of beauty by the way the moon outlined her silhouette’s ringlets and made her nightdress look silver.

“Maria.” She turned, looking surprised.

“Vladislaus,” she murmured softly. Her beautiful face was revealed in the moonlight. “You wish to see me?”

“I do,” Vladislaus murmured, standing in the doorway. “About your relationship with Gabriel.” Maria’s eyebrows furrowed very-slightly.

“Do you approve?” Maria asked. Vladislaus slowly stalked forward.

“I do not,” he said. “Maria, he cannot guarantee you a happy future. As he himself admitted, he has no material possessions – he may be equal to me in social and military standing, but he will never be able to provide you lands like our family possesses. And should another war break out, you will risk being widowed within a year.”

“Vladislaus,” she said, sighing softly. She put a hand on his arm – she’d never known how much he enjoyed her doing that. “I am not blind to the burdens I will face as Gabriel’s wife. We discussed them with each-other at length before he said he would ask to have me.” She put a hand to Vladislaus’ face. “I already risk losing my father and my brothers every time men are called to war. And I have never felt such joy and happiness as I have these past three weeks before. Not _ever_. If I shun the chance to be with Gabriel after experiencing these things, I do not know if I will ever find happiness again.”

“Gabriel is not the only man in the world-” Vladislaus began, feeling black jealousy spreading like a foul plant’s roots in him.

“Have you not heard me?” Maria murmured, voice remaining sincere.

“ _You will not marry him!_ ” Fast as lightning, Vladislaus dug two fingertips into Maria’s jaw’s underside, other hand grabbing her arm. “You will not marry Gabriel, because you are _mine_!” His voice was a hoarse, rasping growl, though he remembered not to yell. “You have always been mine, you will always be mine!” The words came out fast. “You are not Gabriel Van Helsing’s! _You are_ _MINE_!” Before he knew what he was doing, Vladislaus clamped his lips over Maria’s. He sucked in her moist breath, tried furiously to make her tongue dance with his. An upwards knee-jerk to Vladislaus’ groin made him release Maria, giving a hoarse groan. Maria ran to the doorway. Vladislaus saw her look back, shock and horror in her beautiful face. Ignoring the crippling groin-ache, Vladislaus staggered after her, quickly bursting into a run.

Passing through the next room and out to the hallway, Vladislaus saw Maria’s silhouette running left, in the main stairs’ direction. He ran after her, blood singing with fury. She turned a corner, which he rounded two seconds later. Maria looked over her shoulder when Vladislaus was nearly within arm’s reach. She ran onto the landing overlooking the front hall, so fast she might’ve been intending to run into its stone barrier.

“ _FATH_ -!”

Grabbing her from behind, Vladislaus clamped a hand over her mouth. She fought his hold furiously, thrashing about. Vladislaus held firm, but after she inflicted three elbow-strikes to his stomach, his grip loosened and she tore free. She ran horizontally towards the stairs’ top in the landing’s centre – she’d be descending them in two seconds. Vladislaus lunged full-speed, snarling – he grabbed her before she’d descended the top step, they careened sideways, past the stairs’ top to the other side of the landing. Tearing free before Vladislaus had a firm hold, Maria staggered back- And fell with a loud cry, tumbling over the landing-barrier’s top. Vladislaus leaned over the barrier, eyes wide.

_CRACK!_

Maria lay unmoving, twenty feet below. Her body looked broken by her bent knees and arms, and her neck was bent at a horrible angle. A dark pool was rapidly spreading out from her hair. Vladislaus stared less than a second longer, before rushing from the barrier.

* * *

Valerious the Elder and the Younger ran towards the front hall, swords in hand. They’d stayed awake while everyone else had retired, discussing in the dining hall a suitor for the Younger; then they’d heard a woman’s scream and a loud thump, prompting them to rush out. Before they’d reached the front hall, a new sound filled the castle.

“ _NO_!” Vladislaus’ voice yelled in fury and pain. The men emerged in the hall, and saw Vladislaus knelt on the floor, cradling a limp Maria’s head, moonlight pouring in from the open front doors while two guards stood behind Vladislaus. Above, Gabriel threw himself against the landing’s barrier, leaning over. His brown eyes widened. Craning his head, Vladislaus’ icy eyes were murderous.

“You…” Vladislaus growled, teeth gritted. “ _YOU DID THIS_!” he exploded like a thundershock, rising to two feet. The Elder and Younger immediately looked up. “I told you not to let your hurt rule you. _And THIS IS WHAT YOU DO_!” Valerious the Elder’s wide-eyed stupor quickly contorted, baring his teeth animalistically.

“ _Seize him_!” he barked. The two guards sprinted up the stairs. Gabriel didn’t move, eyes remaining on Maria’s body as the guards grabbed his arms and dragged him down the stairs, naked. Vladislaus glared darkly. Valerious the Elder’s grey eyes were burning with hellfire-like hatred. As Gabriel was taken across the hall towards an archway left of the stairs; his wide eyes shifted onto Vladislaus, remaining on him until he’d passed through the archway.

* * *

At dawn, the Valerious men were gathered in the dining hall, silently mourning. Vladislaus had dressed in a grey thigh-length houppelande, and boots which nearly reached his knees. His hands were in front of his chest, head lowered. The Elder and the Younger had dressed in black doublets and grey breeches. Valerious the Elder’s usually-stoic face was a picture of heartache – grey eyes distant, eyebrows sad. The only other time he’d been like this had been when Vladislaus’ mother had died giving birth to Maria. Valerious the Younger stood straight-backed, eyes mournful.

“When will Gabriel’s sentence be carried out?” Vladislaus asked quietly, looking at his father. The sadness vanished, a shadow of fury passing over the Elder’s scarred face.

“He will be removed from the castle storeroom and publicly executed in two days,” Valerious said, voice thundercloud-black. “I’ve sent word of the incident to the Order of the Dragon’s highest members.” Vladislaus was somewhat elated to think Gabriel’s death would be that soon. Hopefully, Gabriel would be walking to his death before he ever guessed what had made Vladislaus accuse him. Vladislaus thought he would stay in Castle Valerious while he and his family grieved, then leave to resume state matters as soon as possible. After losing Maria, he intended to take a more direct role overseeing county law enforcement, the desire to see suffer any Turkish spies they captured burning fiercer than ever, the only-

A loud war cry outside the hall made three heads turn, a thud and another man’s cry following. The guard at the arch looked right, startled.

“It is Gabriel!” he yelled, pike pointed. “He’s escaped!” The war cry sounded again, then there was metal clashing. Vladislaus and his father unsheathed their ceremonial swords, while Valerious the Younger ran to the wall to grab one. The clashing sounds ended with bone-crunching and a pained cry. The archway guard yelled and ran right – just before Gabriel appeared in his path, naked as last night, deflecting the guard’s pike with another guard’s like deflecting a sword. Screaming, the guard made to swing his pike like a staff; Gabriel slammed his pike’s bladeless end to the man’s face, knocking him out. Turning, Gabriel looked at the Valerious men, stood ready for an attack. His eyes shifted between them all a couple times, stopping on Vladislaus.

“You…” he murmured, pointing the pike. Looking out of his eye’s corner, Vladislaus saw his father’s bared lower-teeth through his beard. His brother’s face was likewise dark. “ _You_ …!” Gabriel repeated, more fervidly. Vladislaus suddenly charged, yelling. Gabriel swung the pike, Vladislaus’ sword catching on the pike-blade in a lock. Vladislaus and Gabriel’s faces were inches apart, teeth bared. Vladislaus heard his father and brother charge, yelling. Suddenly, Gabriel broke the lock and pushed Vladislaus back with the pike-stick.

“Vladislaus falsely accused me!” Gabriel yelled at the other two, pointing the pike at Vladislaus. They halted, Valerious the Elder’s face remaining dark.

“ _If you lie_ …” the Elder said, in his darkest tone Vladislaus had ever heard.

“I would’ve died before hurting her!” Gabriel had to be silenced now, his tone was too earnest. Vladislaus charged again, swinging his sword – Gabriel deflected with the pike-blade. Vladislaus stepped back before Gabriel kicked, then made to slice Gabriel’s exposed leg. Gabriel spun, and tried to swing the bladeless pike-end at Vladislaus’ head. Vladislaus ducked and sliced upwards. Gabriel’s arms flew upwards, but not fast enough, the tip of Vladislaus’ blade cutting him. Vladislaus was aware of his family standing by all the time.

Vladislaus stabbed down, Gabriel moving his foot back before the blade hit stone floor. Gabriel kicked at Vladislaus’ head, sending him reeling backwards into the dining table’s edge. Leaping, Gabriel swung the pike again. Slashing upwards, Vladislaus’ sword cut the stick in two, then he rolled sideways before Gabriel landed on the table. Standing and spinning, Vladislaus swung his sword for Gabriel’s neck. Gabriel backed jumped backwards off the table, at the exact moment another blade blocked Vladislaus’. Vladislaus saw Valerious the Elder was wielding that blade, before the scarred man pushed Vladislaus back through their blade-lock. Gabriel ran, jumping onto and off the dining table between him and Vladislaus. Vladislaus raised his sword, just before Gabriel threw his head at Vladislaus’ midsection, knocking both men to the floor. Gabriel almost-immediately grabbed and sprained Vladislaus’ sword-hand, forcing the blade from it. Then he dragged Vladislaus off the floor, throwing him against the table. Gabriel stood back, not attacking.

“Tell them,” Gabriel snarled. “Tell them what happened to Maria last night!”

“I don’t know what you are talking about!” Vladislaus growled, glaring icily.

“I was asleep when I heard her scream, and found you cradling her!” Gabriel yelled, stopping Valerious the Elder advancing. “ _You_ were the only other person who was on the first floor that night!” Gabriel’s voice was low, eyes burning when he next spoke. “ _You murdered her, didn’t you_?!” Silent, Vladislaus’ eyes shifted between Gabriel and his family. His brother’s torn-looking face and father’s uncertain look told Vladislaus there was a serious risk they’d believe Gabriel. “Why did you do it?!” Gabriel growled after a pause. “I noticed the way you stopped talking with me after I started speaking with Maria; she told me you did the same with her!” Vladislaus’ lips were tightly sealed, eyes cold. After a few moments, Gabriel raised the halved pike high.

“ _GABRIEL_!” Valerious the Elder boomed, making Gabriel halt. “If this is true, he _must_ have a chance to confess to God, to save his soul! If you plead innocent, release him and we shall discover the truth!” Vladislaus looked between Gabriel and his father. Gabriel slowly looked back at him. Vladislaus could see Gabriel’s mind working, and knew in this moment, his fate was in Gabriel’s hands. Any ordinary man would’ve thought he were going to live after a few seconds of Gabriel simply staring, but Vladislaus wasn’t an ordinary man. After nearly ten seconds, Gabriel yelled and drove the pike downwards. The blade cut through Vladislaus’ ring finger, making him scream. His father and brother lunged, dragging Gabriel backwards, while Gabriel fought their hold. Pike held above their heads, Gabriel threw it.

_THUNK!_

The entire blade was buried in Vladislaus’ chest, rest of the stick protruding. A strange ringing filled Vladislaus’ ears. Gabriel’s and his family’s yelling suddenly seemed distant, their movements sluggish and meaningless. Vladislaus was barely aware of blood filling his mouth, pooling over its corners. The world’s colours merged, losing their former variety. Vladislaus’ eyes threatened to roll up. Every shape blurred, until everything in Vladislaus’ senses was a white, ringing, shapeless _weight_.

* * *

Then Vladislaus was lying in the exact same place, but he felt nothing, not even numbness. The dining hall was shadowed and grey. He didn’t know how long he remained still, back on the dining table – time seemed meaningless. He slowly rose into a half-sitting, half-leaning position. Somehow, Vladislaus felt light and free, like he’d been a rock in water before and was now a feather on air. Looking down, he saw the pike wasn’t in him, but there was a tear in his clothing where it had punctured. He saw the unconscious guard, Gabriel, and his father and brother dragging Gabriel backwards; still as statues. It was as if time were a sprinting man, who had just stopped. Looking around the hall, Vladislaus was alone apart from the unmoving men, not seeing-

 _No, he was not alone_. There had been no indication air even existed, but now, Vladislaus felt a cold breeze like in late autumn, brushing past the frozen men. He heard a rhythmic _thunk_ -noise slowly repeating. The figure walked slowly past the unmoving men, cane appearing first. It had a slight limp. The boots nearly reached the figure’s knees, and the breeches covered nearly the entire thighs, leaving only a stripe of hose exposed. The breeches were black, and embroidered with strings of gold that didn’t shine. The figure’s long coat was varying shades of red, like it had been coloured with blood several times over, and rivers of dull-gold string were stitched through the fabric. The coat’s lapels and cuffs were fur-lined, the latter embroidered with gold buttons. The figure’s hands were bony, fingernails long. The cane’s head was a screaming human skull with goat-horns, many tiny wailing faces etched into its surface. Inside the coat was a doublet, which was pure-black save for the line of gold buttons down the front. The doublet’s collar ended just below the jawline, and had a small ruff made of gold silk. The figure’s face was thin and pointed, looking youthfully handsome. Vladislaus noticed the skin was flawless, so much so that it seemed vain, possibly even unnatural. The man had silver hair, tied back in a ponytail. The eyes held Vladislaus’ attention – the irises were bright-yellow.

The man halted between Vladislaus and the still figures. An inexplicable dread for his entire being’s safety filled Vladislaus. The man lazily turned his head to the still men, beautiful face harsh. Then his yellow gaze returned to Vladislaus.

“Vladislaus, son of Valerious,” the man purred tauntingly, in a royal yet decrepit voice.

“Who are you?” Vladislaus murmured warily after a pause. The other man _tsk-tsked_ , shaking his head.

“I’m disappointed that you need to ask,” he murmured patronisingly like he were addressing a simpleton. The thought slowly crept up as Vladislaus remembered Gabriel spearing him.

“Are you Death?” Vladislaus murmured, hoping it wasn’t the _other being_ he suspected.

“I am not, I’m afraid,” the man murmured, grinning blackly. “Try again.” If Vladislaus still breathed, it would’ve stopped.

“You are the Devil,” Vladislaus murmured, voice a shaky growl.

“I am,” the man purred almost-soothingly, head slightly lowered. “Do you know why I am here?” Vladislaus tightened his jaw slightly, keeping his eyes on the yellow-eyed man. Every shred of his soul quaked, thinking what it meant if he was dead and the Devil was here.

“You will not have me,” Vladislaus growled defiantly, taking a step backwards along the table’s side.

“I _already_ have you,” the Devil murmured darkly, stepping forward. “You saw to that.” Vladislaus thought back to the assassins, Maria’s fall, and Gabriel killing him after his father had said he needed to save his soul. Suddenly, his face turned dark.

“ _No_ ,” he growled, voice trembling with hate. “ _Gabriel_ did this to me!” The Devil chuckled – it was a low, dark sound. He stepped closer – Vladislaus wanted to step backwards, but one step backwards suddenly seemed like walking two miles.

“What a pity he didn’t give you a fair chance,” the Devil purred, walking past Vladislaus and circling behind him. “How unjust that _He_ should allow this to happen to you, one of his most devout servants.” The Devil’s lips were inches from Vladislaus’ ear, voice apathetic and mocking. “And now, you’re mine forever.” He placed a hand on Vladislaus shoulder, and suddenly Vladislaus felt like he was burning in the hottest fire imaginable, making him scream. Glowing, fiery-orange veins spread from the Devil’s touch through Vladislaus’ skin and clothing. He felt like a fire was burning every drop of his soul it touched – except what it burned didn’t die, forced to remain raw and continue burning. Vladislaus’ suffering was all-consuming – all he knew was neverending agony that wouldn’t kill, all he’d ever know was ceaseless agony which he could never escape from-

The Devil suddenly removed his hand. Vladislaus’ knees almost gave as he gasped. His spirit still felt seared by the experience, the memory looming over him.

“But you can escape,” the Devil murmured, face by Vladislaus’ ear. Vladislaus took some time to look at the Devil. When he did, his blue eyes were cold, face serious.

“How do I escape?” Vladislaus asked, wholly meaning it. The Devil smiled wickedly, showing his slightly-pointed, pure-white teeth.

“It is rare when a man with your mind and your will is born and falls from His grace,” the Devil murmured. “I will give you back your body so you may walk the Earth again, for eternity. More than that, you will have more powers than any servant of darkness has had on the Earth since He died for man. You will have the strength of twenty men, dominion of the night and its many creatures to see and hear through their senses; not even the most grievous of wounds nor the most destructive weapons will be able to harm you. You will be the son of the Devil.”

“What is the price?” Vladislaus murmured, eyes wide.

“I already have your soul,” the Devil said. “The night will be your domain, but in the day you will rest only in the grave. To sustain yourself for eternity, you will consume the blood of the living.”

“I accept,” Vladislaus said after two seconds. Slowly, the Devil raised his left hand, and bit into the wrist. Pure-black liquid trickled on his skin.

“Drink,” the Devil said, showing Vladislaus the bitten wrist. Despite the trickle, there was nothing but blackness inside the opening, like a neverending pit. Wispy black vapour rose from the wound. Leaning forward, Vladislaus slowly brought his head to the Devil’s wrist, clamping his mouth over the wound. He sucked, and felt the blackness enter him, seeming to make his insides feel harsh. Vladislaus drank until his whole being felt horrid, making him pull back and gasp. He felt like a tree made of poison was rooting itself inside him, piercing every wall of his being. Hands flying to his throat, Vladislaus felt like he could vomit, but also felt like the blackness was now nestled in his stomach’s pit. Then he felt heavy, like he were tied to a sinking rock. The shapes of the dining hall became unclear, the grey shades grew darker and the shadows thicker. Vladislaus was aware he was slipping into a dream, consciousness and unconsciousness regaining meaning. Field of vision floating, the blurred yellow blotches of the Devil’s eyes stood out to Vladislaus. Then his vision wandered off that, seeing the dark, horizontal strip of the dining table, then seeing shapeless grey, then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like my take on Dracula’s backstory – I love the idea that Dracula and Van Helsing were friends but Dracula turned to the dark side, even more so I love Aleera-mistressofallevil’s idea in her own fanfiction that their falling-out was a love triangle.


	9. Dracula (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we have the conclusion to Dracula’s backstory and the story overall.

**Transylvania, 1462**

Vladislaus felt like he was sinking. Then he was aware of two smooth pieces atop his eyelids. Raising his left arm off the horizontal surface, Vladislaus removed either piece, then opened his eyes. His canopy cloth was above him, recognisable by the discoloured mark near the centre. His bedchamber was deep-blue with moonlight pouring through open windows. Vladislaus was aware something felt different – he was aware of the bedsheets underneath him, the head sheet below his hair and the cold wind blowing into the chamber, but these things were all just _sensations_. Nothing caused him comfort or discomfort.

Vladislaus slowly rose into a sitting position, aware of something small rolling off his chest. His bedchamber was vacant, its non-private study desk bare of papers. Looking at himself, Vladislaus saw he was dressed in his mourning clothing, a gaping rupture in the houppelande where he’d been pierced. The cloth was stained dark around the hole, but when Vladislaus put his fingers to it, he found undamaged skin inside. He looked at the thing that had rolled off his chest – it was his severed finger, missing his ring. Raising his right hand, Vladislaus saw the ring finger was a stump, ending in a red, non-bleeding hole. Not four seconds later, bone started growing out of the stump, then muscle and skin, as Vladislaus watched in amazement. In three seconds, a new, identical ring finger had appeared. The severed finger rapidly turned green, putrid liquid pooling.

Vladislaus flexed his new finger, testing it. He wondered why he still partly felt like when he’d been in the grey place, but his new powers suddenly interested him. He thought darkly of what else he could do with the powers the Devil had offered him – thinking of what he could do to Gabriel specifically, to Vladislaus’ surprise, his new finger shortened back to a stump. He slid off the bed and, banishing thoughts of Gabriel, watched his ring finger regrow again. Vladislaus walked four paces across the room, examining his finger, before halting and silently observing himself. He wasn’t breathing any longer. He remembered the Devil saying he’d give back Vladislaus’ body – he hadn’t said anything about his life. But Vladislaus didn’t linger; his soul had meant more to him than his life, and now that he was damned, he cared little either way. Approaching a window, Vladislaus looked at the village sprawled on the valley floor – though it was night, he could make out houses, lanes and mountains as if it were a slightly-overcast day. Relaxing his ears, Vladislaus heard yelling, crying and chatter – buildings’ occupants seventy feet diagonally away from him. His gaze scanned left and right, then when it caught moving people outside, some violent desire struck like lightning – it was slightly hungry, singing to Vladislaus’ insides with its power, a longing that needed to be sated. Eyes lingering on one person, Vladislaus’ vision suddenly shifted. He was seeing through the visible people’s flesh to the moving skeleton, a bright-red glow emanating off of them. By the way the glow teased his desire, Vladislaus guessed he was sensing the living bodies’ warmth.

Vladislaus was impressed, but beyond heightened senses, he wanted to see what exertive powers he possessed. Looking at his tarnished clothing, Vladislaus growled in disgust, then he proceeded to his chamber’s wardrobe. Removing the grey mourning clothes, Vladislaus donned red hose, over which he wore boots that were halfway to knee-height, and a black houppelande with a line of gold buttons sealing the front. He added a waist-length black traveller’s cape, and a fur-lined cap with a large, dark bird-feather at the front set in place by an amethyst.

Attire in place, Vladislaus exited the chamber. He passed through empty rooms, trying to keep his pace quiet lest Gabriel or his family hear him, though such caution quickly faded when Vladislaus’ own sensitive ears could barely hear his footsteps. Vladislaus exited the castle through the rock mouth, as on the night he’d hired the assassins. He slipped into the village through shadowed lanes between buildings, wanting to avoid anyone seeing his face yet – he didn’t know if it had been a day or longer since he’d died, nor if his death had already been announced. Approaching a cross-section where another lane crossed the one Vladislaus was on, he heard a close-seeming rhythmic-thumping, before a hideous drunkard stumbled into view from on the other lane. Vladislaus halted, then silently pressed back to the lane wall, watching the man and listening. The drunk looked down the lane, eyes passing over Vladislaus like he were invisible, while Vladislaus saw clearly like he were only in a tree’s shade. After a few moments staring, the drunk stumbled away along the adjacent lane, thumping noise that Vladislaus realised had to be the man’s heart slightly quicker. Vladislaus considered targeting the man, but disregarded it – he wanted something slightly less contemptible, so he continued down the lane, a black silhouette passing in buildings’ shadows.

Passing the lane cross-section – and barely glancing sideways down the way the drunk had gone – Vladislaus heard yelling voices coming from around the bend of a T-section twenty feet ahead of him, the noise getting clearer the closer he came.

“ _I said to not hurt him_!” a woman’s voice cried out, the feminine sound drawing Vladislaus’ interest.

“ _I said I’d have you if I had to kill him, and I meant it_!” cried a harsh, slightly-gravelly man’s voice that didn’t sound at all educated.

“ _Gergo, please_ …” the woman’s voice pleaded pitifully. “ _I… Please… I didn’t want this_ …” A pause followed, in which Vladislaus crossed at an even pace to within seven feet of the bend. He heard a _thwack_ sound of flesh being hit hard, immediately followed by the woman’s voice crying out, while he continued walking forward.

“Well, fine,” Vladislaus heard the man’s voice snarl savagely. “You don’t want me, I don’t want you. I can find myself a whore at the inn near the square, and I’d bet she’ll be ten times as good as you in that bed!” At the bend, Vladislaus slowed and stopped, then he slowly leaned his head forward – just enough for one eye, the brim of his hat and a bit of eye socket to be visible past the bend. Ten feet up a narrow lane, a woman wearing a thick, white, single-piece peasant’s rag was on her behind in the earth, one hand to her round face. She was looking up, dirty-blonde locks falling halfway down her shoulders. “You want food? You want a place to sleep?” snarled the red-haired moustached man on the house’s doorstep, wearing a loose-fitting grey peasant’s shirt, blue pants and no footwear. “Your animal pa-pa is dead, go scrounge for filthy rat-food here in this street!” The man withdrew, slamming the house’s door shut. Vladislaus remained still, watching the woman on the earth, listening to her heart’s beating. She remained on her backside, hand on her face, and began weeping softly after a few seconds. She picked herself up after some moments and began stalking up the lane; frame spasming, arms clutched close to her body pathetically. Vladislaus’ eyes narrowed, his teeth slightly showing as he grinned. Emerging from the bend, he stalked down the lane three seconds before the woman turned into another lane.

Listening to the woman’s heartbeat, Vladislaus initially proceeded at a quick pace to the bend she’d passed, then when he turned it and saw her back as she slowly staggered, he slightly slowed. The woman turned left – stopping at the bend to shudder, heaving out sobs like vomit. Keeping pace, Vladislaus slowly closed the distance, sticking to the shadows. He and his prey passed a half-unconscious drunkard, and another passer-by moving in the opposite direction. Near the next lane’s end, the woman turned right short of entering an open street. Boots slightly-quick on the earth, Vladislaus turned the bend four seconds later, seeing the current alley was no more than twenty feet long. The woman shuddered and sobbed twice more – she was moving slightly slower now.

“Good evening,” Vladislaus murmured five feet behind the woman. She turned, green eyes ridiculously wet with tears. After a second taking in Vladislaus’ shadowed cape and hat, she hurriedly wiped a hand on her bruised face, then bowed her head and upper-body half-hurriedly. “Forgive me for my intrusiveness, but you appeared to be in need of being wished such a thing.” Vladislaus heard her heart quickening.

“I- I beg your forgiveness, lord,” the woman murmured, locks dangling, not raising her body. “I am wretched.” Vladislaus chuckled softly, grinning.

“ _Lord_ ,” Vladislaus echoed hoarsely. “Do you know who I am?” The woman raised her head, eyes wide with miserable fear. Vladislaus slowly stepped forward so half his face was in the yellow light of an outside-hung lamp. The woman’s face didn’t show recognition – not surprising, as Vladislaus hadn’t recently passed through this small part of the village – but she looked into Vladislaus’ eyes like he were a sunbeam shining through stained glass. Vladislaus thought something immediately seemed shifted in her – suddenly, she was like an ant in his gaze, and like a keyhole which he felt he could easily slot through like a key’s pin and wards.

The woman replied after five seconds, “I- I do not know your face, my-” She stopped herself short of saying the wrong word, lips tightly sealed, bowing her head slightly. Her face was creased with emotion, eyes still brimming with tears. She had a lump in her throat, trying to stop herself from sniffling. Vladislaus chuckled, stepping towards her.

“Do not worry,” Vladislaus murmured, tilting her chin up with an index finger. She met his eyes again, and looked slightly dazed. “I will not punish you simply for not recognising me, especially on such a night as this.” The slightest breath left the woman’s body, relieved. The warmth in it rolled over Vladislaus’ skin, making that gnawing desire in him unignorable. Slowly advancing forward, he wrapped his hands around the woman’s body in an embrace, as slow as rolling mist – she cried out slightly at the contact, then relaxed into it like they’d always been friends. “You are, I believe, exactly what I need,” Vladislaus growled huskily into the woman’s ear, nose brushing her locks. Withdrawing slightly, Vladislaus sharply grabbed the woman’s hair and pulled her into a dip, making her cry out slightly. Following instinct and gnawing need, Vladislaus opened his mouth and was aware of his face _morphing_ – his lower-jaw opened wider than it naturally should have, and the teeth in his mouth became sharp, two teeth lengthening. A sound escaped, like a hiss made by a creature from Hell’s bowels. Face filling with horror, the woman opened her mouth to scream – half a second in, Vladislaus clamped a hand over her mouth. She kicked and hit Vladislaus – being a soldier, he had a high tolerance threshold, but this felt like being slapped with a wet cloth. Vladislaus barely glanced up and down the lane, listening to make sure no-one was coming. As the woman screamed into his palm, Vladislaus lowered his head towards her neck. He could _feel_ the hot blood, rushing furiously under her exposed skin, making his need for it increase greatly. Half a foot from the neck, Vladislaus suddenly lunged the rest of the way – his teeth punctured flesh, blood entering his body. It was _overwhelmingly sweet_. Vladislaus couldn’t taste anything, but the blood sated him, like devouring a juicy turkey after days without food or like drinking water after crossing a desert. He kept taking blood in, feeling his strength increase, feeling strong like when he’d killed in battle without fully exerting himself. While the woman’s muffled screaming died, hits rapidly growing weaker.

* * *

Walking down the open street, holding either of her small brothers’ hands, the curly red-haired girl felt slightly hurried to get home. She in her white peasant-dress and dark-red shawl, and her brown- and blonde-haired brothers in brown clothes, were the only people about after sunset. Despite the yellow light from windows and lamps hanging outside, the girl looked about like a bear from the mountains might be lurking. She dreaded the thought she and her brothers could be killed next for being out alone at night, as the three people killed over the last two weeks had been. The priest had said a devil was walking in Vaseria, and the girl didn’t see why one should doubt. Approaching the gap between a house and inn, the girl had an urge screaming inside her not to go in, remembering that the first dead person had been found in a lane, but the thought of what her father would do if they didn’t come home soon helped her overcome it. She marched through the shadows quickly to reach the street twenty feet ahead, slowing slightly when one of her brothers started lagging. She exited out the other side, her and her brothers curving in their walk.

“Excuse me.” The girl spun with her brothers, eyes wide. Upon seeing the man in the fur-lined hat and traveller’s cloak, her breathing momentarily slowed, eyes drawn to his handsome, slightly-worn face. “Forgive my intrusiveness, but I see that you are on your own. It is not safe for a young woman and children to be alone at night.” He slowly stepped forward. “So please, allow me to escort you to your residence.” He offered a hand, non-hostile. The girl’s gaze wandered onto it – her first impulse was to accept it, but then she backed away slightly. She looked uncertainly at the man – he clearly wasn’t simple folk so she worried about wrongfully causing offence, even if she somehow felt he was a friendly man. “You need not fear,” he murmured almost huskily. The girl found it difficult to stop looking at his blue eyes. “I am no common murderer. I shall not hurt you.”

“I…” The girl blinked. “I… Forgive me, sir, but I am not sure my family will appreciate at all such a noble man being troubled-”

“It shall be no trouble at all,” the man cut her off, slightly-hoarse voice authoritative. _Strong_ , the girl though the voice was. Yet the girl remained uncertain, feeling there was something important she had to remember. “I insist,” he said. The girl hesitated a moment longer, feeling the warning voice in her mind’s back screaming faintly.

“Yes, sir,” she murmured. The man’s smile broadened pleasantly. Then with sudden speed, he grabbed her dress’s front and threw her at a lane opposite the one she’d come from, like she were a ragdoll. The girl hurtled fifteen feet before crashing into a stack of wooden boxes. She vaguely heard her brothers’ voices start screaming before being cut off. Groaning, the girl remained among the toppled boxes and mud for five seconds before lifting her head. Looking back, she saw the man standing in front of her brothers, either hand clamped tightly over their lower-jaws. He was looking at her, smiling. Eyes wide, the girl got up in one second and ran forward – a horrid sound which she didn’t know was hers for a few seconds filled the lane. She halted at the lane entrance, looking at the man and her brothers, the boys’ eyes terror-filled. She briefly thought to try commanding the man – _devil_ , she now thought – to begone, as the priest had said a righteous soul could triumph over evil if God was on their side. She raised a hand and made the sign of the cross – the monster growled through his teeth and winced, like it pained him. The brown-haired boy made a muffled scream as Vladislaus lifted him, before throwing him at the girl. He hit her midsection, throwing her backwards to the mud. The girl rose after two seconds, seeing the man slowly stalking forward – face dark, eyes ice-cold – the blonde boy forced to walk with him as the man held his jaw. The girl on her backside scrabbled backwards with her brown-haired brother, the monster-man keeping pace, until her back hit a wooden wall.

“Please, please don’t harm us,” the girl pleaded desperately, frightened tears stinging her eyes. Looming above her, the demon slowly smiled, though his eyes remained cold. He stepped forward, feet on either side of her knees, while her brother clung to her and she to him. Crouching, he lightly slammed both hands to the wall on either side of the two, including the hand holding her blonde brother’s head.

“Come with me, and I will not harm them,” the monster murmured quietly, face inches from the girl’s. “If you scream or run away, I will kill them both and then I will kill you.” The brown-haired boy whined keenly, clutching the girl tighter. The girl’s eyes welled, abstractly terrified of being taken away from her home by this monster. The monster smiled, patiently awaiting her answer. Her breathing started hitching as she sobbed weakly, and the monster’s smile slowly faded. After what seemed like only ten seconds, the girl weakly nodded her head. The monster grinned, giving a small growl. Then he opened his mouth unnaturally-wide, several teeth becoming long and pointed, irises glowing. The girl and her brown-haired brother screamed. The monster’s hand grabbed their blonde brother’s neck and snapped it, before he clamped both hands over the girl and remaining boy’s mouths. He leaned towards the girl, demonic hiss emerging from his monstrous mouth, making the girl’s eyes bulge and making her convulse with terrified sobs.

* * *

After the young woman and two boys hadn’t come home, most of the community dreaded the beast or devil had claimed three more victims. When no bodies were found by the next sunset, their father and half the neighbours said they must have run away – the other half of the neighbours still said it was the work of evil. Twelve days later, there hadn’t been a single new killing in the night, which made some villagers hopeful that the bane had left altogether.

The following night, three villagers in different houses saw something eerie – a red-haired young woman with a boy holding her hand, walking in the street, though their faces weren’t seen. An innkeeper watched from a window as the last drunkard out of his inn stumbled towards them. They stopped, the woman smiling rosily, while the drunkard muttered lecherously about it being dangerous for little ladies to be out with no father or husband. The girl chuckled. Then, as the innkeeper stared in horror, hers and the boy’s faces transformed – jaws lowering unnaturally far, fangs appearing – and they leapt upon the man. They bit him, very little blood escaping beyond their lips. They remained on the man ten seconds, then suddenly looked at the window. Closing the shutters, the innkeeper barricaded the door and downstairs window-shutters with tables, and remained huddled in a corner until the morning. At dawn, the boy and woman were gone, leaving only the man’s body which had two of the same bite as the previous victims. The priest performed an exorcism on the street where the man had died, and blessed the man’s family.

A week later, a barmaid walking from her lover’s house saw a silhouette holding a limp person, face buried in their neck. When the figure raised its head, the barmaid saw yellow eyes. A dog-breeder’s daughter’s corpse was found there the next morning. The next night, two boys stumbled into their father’s friend’s house, one holding the other who’d been bitten on the shoulder – he said the yellow-eyed little boy who’d attacked outside the inn had done this. Another six days later, a middle-aged woman ran into an inn screaming one of the yellow-eyed wraiths had killed her daughter, and she herself had a bite mark near her neck. Five days afterwards, a little girl reappeared on her uncle’s doorstep, saying the fresh bite-wound on her arm hurt. In this time, the shoulder-bitten boy had fallen increasingly sick and become bedridden – he felt constantly weak and achy, saying the sun hurt his skin. Despite his family’s tending, he died after eleven days, by which time his mother had also been bitten and was falling sick. Two days after the bitten boy’s death, a bitter old woman took up shouting to her neighbours, saying she’d seen the dead boy with yellow eyes and fangs, committing the previous night’s killing. The priest had insisted on performing an exorcism on the spot where the body had been found. Two nights after the sick boy’s mother died, a drunk banged on the church’s doors. The priest answered, a drunk outside saying he’d seen the red-haired demon-girl and the middle-aged mother attacking a man, woman and child. Several villagers went to the graveyard the next morning, but found the fresh graves’ soil looked unbroken.

Hysteria spread through Vaseria, along with stories of demons that took the forms of the dead and wicked souls rising from the grave. The priest wanted to dig up the victims’ graves, at which point Valerious the Elder intervened – he told the priest in the populated village square, he’d suffer a grave robber’s punishment if he did any such thing. Over two more weeks, seven more people died, either in an attack or from the sickness that claimed the bitten survivors. Bitten and non-bitten villagers continued spreading stories – saying they’d seen the dead victims walking at night, if not that they’d seen them attacking people with fangs, eyes turning yellow. Three unrelated villagers said they’d seen Count Vladislaus Valerious. The priest grew angrier as the deaths continued, and the graves’ soil remained as loose as ever, but he didn’t dare defy Valerious the Elder. Talk spread that the fires seen on the mountains in the day were villagers burning their bitten relatives’ corpses, rather than letting them return from the buried grave. The sceptical villagers – whose numbers were dwindling – blamed dogs or beasts for the deaths and cut many dogs’ throats. Seven weeks after the first deaths, ten brash villagers went outside together at night, hoping to ward off an attack. After midnight, six of them were running and screaming in different parts of the village; the others were dead at dawn. Another two weeks later, nearly a quarter of Vaseria’s population was dead or slowly dying of the bite-related sickness. With the graveyard overflowing, people buried on the village outskirts or burned the bodies. Villagers approached Castle Valerious, unsuccessfully begging the guards to let the family hear their pleas for help. The surge grew slightly larger every couple days.

* * *

Nearly three months after Maria and Vladislaus’ deaths, father and son were dining after sunset. Valerious the Younger put his knife down and turned to the Elder.

“Father, I believe I must talk with you about the trouble occurring in the village,” the Younger said.

“What of it?” the Elder muttered harshly, cutting his food. “Do you wish to lead a posse to hunt down the beasts?”

“Father, I am deeply troubled by our dismissal of the claims the dead are rising,” the Younger said.

“And why are you troubled?” the Elder asked, sounding contemptuous. “I have told you, the villagers have my full permission to lead hunting parties as large as they wish and to ask any weapons they need of us.” He put the fork in his mouth, devouring the meat.

“They do not want swords and maces, they want permission to burn their own dead,” the Younger said pressingly.

“Do you believe their stories?” the Elder asked, glaring coldly. Valerious the Younger was slightly taken aback.

“The priest says the graves’ soil remains loose and soft,” the Younger said calmly. “And masses of villagers at the castle’s front door claim they saw the dead walking at night and committing the killings.”

“Do you recall what happened with the madman while I was the Vastags’ guest in Bargau?” the Elder growled, lower-teeth showing through his beard. “Ten townspeople and farmers were disembowelled over eight nights. The villagers had screamed it was a devil, and the culprit was nothing more than a mortal man.”

“I have not forgotten, Father,” the Younger said. “But that does not explain the soil, or why so many villagers claim the same thing.”

“The soil could be a ritual the murderer is practicing – much like the Bargau murderer killing livestock for every man he killed,” the Elder said gruffly. “As for continuation, the attacks could be committed by multiple murderers, who may be hidden among the villagers.”

“I looked at one of the deceased’s mortal remains,” the Younger said. “The bite could not have been made by a man.”

“Then it is bears and wolves,” the Elder murmured. “They’ve entered the village before.”

“No, the bite was too circular for a wolf,” the Younger said. The Elder glared, scarred face disdainful.

“Tell me, when was the last time you saw a wolf’s bite?” he growled harshly.

“When I was twenty years old,” the Younger admitted.

“And your memory from when you were twenty years old is clear enough to remember precisely how circular a wolf’s bite is?” the Elder asked.

“No,” the Younger admitted. He hesitated before speaking again, words on his tongue’s tip. “Father… you taught me to never doubt the power of Satan, yet you so readily dismiss the possibility that he is at work here?”

“I do not doubt the power of Satan,” Valerious the Elder said, looking more calm. “Equally, I do not doubt the power of madness over men in times of crises.”

“Father, these events began on the night Vladislaus’ body disappeared-”

“ _Which WOULD NOT HAVE HAPPENED, HAD YOU KEPT WATCH!_ ” the Elder exploded, chair scraping the floor as he shot up. Valerious the Younger momentarily thought thunder had exploded in the dining hall. “You know as well as any Transylvanian the dead should never be left unattended, and you left your brother alone, to rest your eyes! You seek a better explanation for these murders?! It may be Gabriel Van Helsing who is responsible, seeing as he escaped and fled the same night your brother’s body disappeared! He may even be the one who took the body!” Valerious the Younger didn’t dare speak further - dealing with his father’s full wrath was a strength God had never granted him to the same amount he had Vladislaus.

“Enough of this talk about your brother and the villagers’ stories,” Valerious the Elder growled, sweeping a hand through the air commandingly. “Our extended relations arrive tomorrow. If you wish to help in the village put an end to these deaths, then by all means, go. You are excused.” Valerious the Elder marched around the table, side harshly brushing the corner, footsteps clear in the hall as he exited. The Elder’s footsteps slowly fading, Valerious the Younger remained sitting, hands clasped together. Before his siblings’ deaths, his father would never have been so uncaring about the village, nor so dismissive of this phenomena.

* * *

Awake, Vladislaus listened to his father and brother’s activity, smiling. His powers still amazed him – if he relaxed his ears and listened, he could hear his father and brother talking in the castle. When he hissed a certain way, the sound gave his ears a clear picture of the crypt. And though it was pitch-black, Vladislaus could still clearly see outlines and shapes in the crypt. Hearing his father thought there was nothing demonic occurring, Vladislaus could’ve chuckled at the old man’s impudence. Thoughts turning to his victims, Vladislaus again probed with his mind, feeling the many fellow fiends connected to him.

He remembered the red-haired girl and her brother he’d taken captive and chained to a rock, in the mountain-cave above the village. It was where he’d slept in the day inside the coffin he’d stolen, having discovered early on that without a grave, he remained aware of himself and his surroundings through the day no matter how weak he felt. The children had whimpered and huddled together pathetically, the chains manacling the girl’s wrist and the boy’s ankle clinking, heartbeats something Vladislaus could have danced to. Vladislaus had bitten them shallowly every couple nights, drinking only until their muscles’ strength had waned, and had brought them berries from the woods and a dish of river-water. He’d wanted to see how long he could keep the living alive as a continuous food source before they’d perish. They’d initially only stayed weak for hours, but as time had gone on, their weakness had seemed to grow more permanent. They’d lasted for nine days before the boy had died at night – two nights later, Vladislaus had emerged from his coffin, to find the dead boy slowly feeding on the girl just as Vladislaus fed on his victims.

“ _Master_ ,” the boy had said when he’d seen Vladislaus. Then Vladislaus had become aware of his connection to the not-dead boy, the boy seeming like the smallest dog to Vladislaus’ mind, Vladislaus’ will wrapping around his tiny presence without eye contact or any resistance. Vladislaus had released the boy, then the girl when she’d also ceased to be wholly-dead. At present, Vladislaus was connected to nearly eighty fiends – created by him biting people and they biting more people. Feeling their presences with his mind, he needed only to pick one, and he’d be able to see and hear whatever they did and to take any memory from their mind he wished. What was more, he was sure he felt stronger rather than weaker the more minions were created.

Vladislaus hadn’t stayed in the mountain-cave for long after releasing his first two servants. Though an invisible force blocked him and his fellow fiends from entering a private residence – except for the time he’d thrown one of his fiends through a wall – Vladislaus had discovered he could re-enter and exit Castle Valerious freely. He supposed because he’d lived here and had risen from the dead in its walls. When Vladislaus wasn’t listening to activity in the castle, he rested in his great-grandfather’s stone sarcophagus in the isolated crypt chamber, the skeleton of the sarcophagus’ first occupant tossed aside at its foot. Vladislaus had been dismayed to hear Gabriel had escaped the same night he’d risen, taking Vladislaus’ ring from where his family had stored it – he’d wanted to repay his friend for what he’d done. Vladislaus supposed he would settle for killing his remaining family – he’d like to have his father see what little God would do for him, before he drank the life from him.

* * *

The morning before the feast, Vladislaus had remained outside the sarcophagus until after he’d heard his relatives arrive – a couple uncles, three first cousins and eleven distant relations. He rose at sunset as usual, before the feast’s start. He listened until everyone was seated, then made his way up the stairway into Castle Valerious. He had little need for the secret passageways, going straight through the rooms and halls. Near the library, Vladislaus approached a guard from behind, grabbing him and biting his neck until he died. He crept up on and snapped the neck of another guard past the next corner, and two more in the front hall. Moonlight and candlelight cast the castle halls in blue and yellow flecks as Vladislaus strode towards the dining hall, hands behind his back, the soft talking voices getting closer in his ears.

Vladislaus stalked into the archway, initially unnoticed. The table slowly went quiet as, one by one, everyone turned a head and saw him. Many faces went pale with stupid horror, others seemed baffled, perhaps suspecting his death had been a fiction. Slowly stalking into the hall, Vladislaus smiled pleasantly.

“Greetings, my father’s brothers and distant relations,” he said. He approached the table, some nobles abandoning their seats and backing away. “I must apologise for my lateness. I thought a surprise would be most entertaining.” Entertaining it was, as Vladislaus drank the dinner-guests’ stupor like well-aged blood. Seeing and smelling a garlic clove-string on the table near him, Vladislaus found himself curling his lip without knowing why, then he moved towards the left-hand chair nearest the table’s bottom – a female cousin wearing a rose-red dress occupied it, possessing a pointed face and auburn hair in a net. Standing behind the chair, Vladislaus brought his arms over her shoulders, hands joining over her chest. Inches above her head, he smelled sweet fear, her heart’s thumping filling his ears like music.

“What is the matter?” Vladislaus asked the table with mock-surprise, smiling at every pale face. “Did you think I was dead?” He looked at the table’s head. Valerious the Elder’s face was stoic, but delightfully, Vladislaus saw a look in his father’s eyes he’d never seen there before. “Or did you lie when you said the Devil’s power should never be underestimated?” Several voices began whispering in horror.

“Demon.”

“Devil.”

“Creature of the night.”

Vladislaus stroked his thumb above the auburn woman’s dress neckline, up and down her cleavage though avoiding the cross on her bosom. She hissed in air, heart speeding up.

“ _Release her, devil_!” snarled a middle-aged woman, standing up. She wore an escoffin, from which long white veils hung. Vladislaus grabbed the auburn woman’s lower jaw and bared his teeth at the old woman, eyes flashing pale-blue.

“Mary, Mother of Mercy,” someone said, making the sign of the cross.

“ _You are guests in my house_ ,” he snarled. “ _Until you are guests no longer, I shall do with you as I wish_.”

“This… is not your house,” Valerious the Elder said slowly – his voice was commanding, but Vladislaus, slowly turning his head, detected a slight tremble. He released the woman’s jaw, running a finger down her Adam’s apple.

“How strange,” Vladislaus murmured, instantly calm. Releasing the woman, he slowly stalked past the chairs towards the table head. “As I recall, I was made sole heir of this house at the same time I became a count. This house, Father – your grandfather’s house – is as _good as mine_. Though if you require officiality, be assured I will see to it my castle’s previous tenants are dead, _before another dawn touches the castle’s walls_.” Valerious the Elder vacated his seat – Vladislaus’ father, the man he’d once thought was his equal in willpower, was _backing away_! Vladislaus chuckled darkly, Valerious the Elder slowly backing around the table’s other side, Vladislaus stalking after him.

“ _You_ , backing away, Father?” Vladislaus purred. “Perhaps you are right, this isn’t my house.” They passed Valerious the Younger’s chair, and Vladislaus was aware of him watching in shock. “Tell me, what strength is God granting you now?!” Vladislaus hissed. “Is he giving you none, just as he gave me none when I was in the Devil’s arms?” Vladislaus saw the tiny shift in the Elder’s eyes. “Yes, Father. Gabriel Van Helsing robbed your son of his salvation, and God didn’t lift a finger to amend the wrong to his devout protector of the faith. Just like he did nothing when my mother was taken from us. Or my sister.” Still the Elder’s face was stoic, but his eyes could’ve burned. Vladislaus chuckled and grinned wickedly. “Do not worry, Father. After tonight, you shall join them in the earth.” Vladislaus’ mouth began changing, an ungodly hissing sound escaping.

Valerious the Elder suddenly swiped his hand across the table, throwing cloves, leaves and meat at Vladislaus. Vladislaus screamed a sound that belonged in Hell, something in the food burning him. Opening his eyes after two seconds, he saw his father sprint to the wall, pulling a lever hidden between two bricks. Suddenly, the floor below Vladislaus fell away. Screeching as he fell, Vladislaus’ fingers grabbed the square trapdoor’s edge just before it would’ve been out of reach, leaving him dangling in the dark cellar. Grabbing the edge with his other hand, Vladislaus flung his body’s weight upwards. He shot three feet above the hole, a snarl and a hissing shriek emerging from him, before he landed on two feet. Everyone stared in shock momentarily. Then Vladislaus grabbed the dining table’s edge, and threw it in the air. The guests at the opposite wall scattered, but three weren’t fast enough, the table’s top fatally flattening them against the opposite wall. The other guests stared in horror a second. Hearing footsteps, Vladislaus looked at the archway, seeing two guards appear – the front door guards he assumed. A female cry drew Vladislaus’ attention – it was a young woman in a blue dress, huddled with a slightly-older blonde woman left of the table.

Almost without thinking, Vladislaus marched fast towards them. A male guest next to them removed a wall-mounted sword and ran forward, yelling. Vladislaus grabbed the man’s sword-hand, forcing the sword through his belly and out his back easily. _Pathetic_ , he thought. The guards ran forward, one ahead of the other. Promptly removing the sword from the corpse, Vladislaus sliced the nearer guard’s head off. He backhanded the other guard’s pike from his hands – hearing bones in the hands crunch – and lifted the guard off the floor by his throat. He threw the guard backwards, into the wall above the archway. Another guest ran at Vladislaus’ right, mace raised. Vladislaus stayed the man’s wrist a split-second before the mace would’ve struck, then sank his teeth into the man’s neck.

“ _Stay back_!” Vladislaus heard his father roar. A second later, Vladislaus let the body drop, sighing with slight pleasure. Everyone was standing or huddled against the thrown table, on his left, right and centre. Eyes finding the auburn-haired woman, holding onto one of his uncles by the crashed table, Vladislaus advanced. Those who didn’t recoil out of his path, he carelessly shoved aside one-handed. When Vladislaus was a foot away, his willowy-looking uncle made up his mind, moving forward. Vladislaus sidestepped and grabbed the man, throwing him across the hall to crash into a wall-mounted torch. Vladislaus watched his uncle crumple, then slowly looked back at the auburn woman, who was pressing backwards into the table’s underside. Stepping forward, Vladislaus slowly planted his palms on the table on either side, caging her, and grinned. Growling, Vladislaus grabbed her cross and tore it from her neck. He threw it away, ignoring the burning in his palm. His mouth started changing, a hissing screech escaping – the sound died as something pierced his upper-back, pushing air out of his body. Turning, Vladislaus saw the escoffin-wearing woman behind him. She instantly looked afraid. Sneering darkly, Vladislaus nonchalantly reached behind his back and removed the embedded table knife. He was aware of Valerious the Younger removing something from the wall nearby, but didn’t take his icy gaze off the old woman. He stepped forward – she backed one step in the time it took Vladislaus to make two steps. Valerious the Younger ran at Vladislaus’ side, yelling – and suddenly, Vladislaus felt burning agony explode on his skin, making him yell and stagger sideways. Unscrewing his eyelids, Vladislaus saw his brother was holding one of the wall-mounted crosses, three feet from his eyes. Valerious the Younger pushed forward, making Vladislaus burn hotter and back sideways.

“ _Get more crosses and use them_!” Vladislaus’ brother yelled. Vladislaus raised his forearm, but it did nothing to shield his body from the agony. He sensed physical heat, a second before yellow light pierced his eyelids. Looking while screaming, Vladislaus saw the cross was bursting into flames. His brother held it for two more seconds, then cried out and dropped it. Vladislaus stopped backing, screaming dying in two seconds. Valerious the Younger looked at him, eyes wide. A slight growl escaped Vladislaus’ throat, then he stepped towards his brother, face cold and dark. He was four paces away when noise made him look past the Younger. Guests were taking down another mounted cross. Looking left, Vladislaus saw a guest running at him with another dismounted cross. Screaming in rage, Vladislaus swiped an arm at his brother, knocking him across the hall. A second later, the cross was close enough to burn, making Vladislaus scream. Suddenly, two more things were burning him, as more guests carrying crosses flanked the first. They slowly pushed forward, making Vladislaus step backwards. He realised where they were forcing him, a second before the floor ended and he fell. Vladislaus’ hand grabbed the trapdoor’s edge. The guests held their crosses above the hole – Vladislaus screamed a hellish sound, feeling agony unlike any he’d known before, but didn’t let go. Forcing one eye open, Vladislaus saw his father holding one of the crosses towards him, past Vladislaus’ hand. Screaming anew, Vladislaus thought he could’ve turned to ash, but didn’t let go. He heard wood crackling, light exploding behind his eyelids. Outside the hole, Valerious the Younger grunted, then his sword cut through Vladislaus’ fingers. Vladislaus fell, the cross’s flame-engulfed ashes falling directly above him. He fell for four seconds before his torso went _through_ something, impaling him. The cross’s ashes fell on his houppelande-clad chest, flames still among them.

Groaning hoarsely, Vladislaus had a sudden sense of being oppressed, like being suffocated by sweltering air. He wanted to rage against it, but moving any part of his body was like bending a tree branch with a mortal’s strength. Looking around, Vladislaus saw he’d landed in a coffin on a stone block, and six silver spikes had impaled him – five protruding from his chest including one over his heart, sixth protruding through his right thigh. He made out the wine cellar’s layout and barrel-shapes in the dark. Three rings surrounded the stone he’d landed on – the closest was flowers, the middle was crushed white flakes and the furthest was green herbs. Vladislaus could guess the middle ring was church wafers, the nearest was wolfsbane, and the furthest was rosemary, and they were what was making him weak. Inside him, the silver spikes induced a certain _tingle_ , like indigestion or the taste of ink.

Forcing his head to turn, Vladislaus saw his father, brother and several guests’ faces above him, in the hole. The guests and Valerious the Younger looked shocked or horrified, while the Elder’s scarred face was a picture of utter disgust. Baring his teeth, Vladislaus snarled. A moment later, his father vanished past the hole’s border. The trapdoors slowly began swinging shut, the ray of light thinning, then vanishing. Vladislaus was completely cut off.

* * *

Two days and three nights passed – two days after which Vladislaus felt only half-replenished, and two nights immobilised. Vladislaus had been unable to slide his body off the stakes – when he’d tried hard enough, the rings’ oppressive effect had grown heavier, threatening to choke the proverbial life from him. However, he was sure the rings’ effects were slightly lessening each night, which meant he wouldn’t be imprisoned for long if his jailers didn’t replace them. In the meantime, Vladislaus retreated into his mind when awake, thinking hateful thoughts about his father and brother, which fuelled his desire to give them slow, agonising deaths. Listening at night to what happened in the castle, Vladislaus had heard from his father and brother that their relatives had left the day after he’d been trapped, taking their dead with them. From the night after he’d been trapped, a dozen of Vladislaus’ fiends had disappeared in his mind, his connections to them severed, and he’d heard his father and brother discussing the effort to exterminate the other creatures like him. Apparently, the Elder and Younger had given the villagers full permission to exhume and destroy the dead, and were spearheading the mob. Extracting the remaining fiends’ memories and seeing through their eyes, Vladislaus had discovered the remaining fiends were the ones resting on the village outskirts, the ones in the graveyard having been annihilated. Feeling slightly weaker as more of his minions had perished, Vladislaus had called out to the remainder, warning them. Tonight, he’d discovered by extracting the others’ memories they’d fled their graves, going into the mountains or seeking unoccupied buildings in Vaseria. The fiends in the mountains had dug graves to rest in during the day. Concerning how his servants had been destroyed, Vladislaus had been surprised to hear from his father and brother’s conversation, several had burned to ash and bones when they’d been exposed to the sun; those who’d been unearthed when the sky was overcast had been destroyed by holy water or stakes driven through their hearts. Vladislaus had noted the silver stake in his heart hadn’t killed him, perhaps because it wasn’t wood like the villagers’, even if it felt poisonous. He’d dreaded his father and brother would attempt to destroy him the same ways as his servants.

Ten nights later, Vladislaus’ situation was dire. He’d woken on the fourth night to find all three rings had been replaced with fresh stock, feeling as oppressive as when he’d first been trapped. The effect had again faded by the eighth night, and they’d been replenished during the day again. More of Vladislaus’ fiends had perished, but at a lesser rate than when he’d first been imprisoned, and the remaining fiends were biting more people to restore their numbers. Vladislaus didn’t hear his family say anything about destroying him, focusing on his servants. Curiously, after the seventh night, Vladislaus had only heard his brother’s and the guards’ voices, not his father’s. The guards had said Valerious the Elder had left to deal with faith-based matters.

Twenty-five nights after being trapped, Vladislaus remained imprisoned and un-destroyed. He wished he could remain awake in the day to see if he could get free when the rings were being replaced, but unable to leave the coffin, he became inert from sunrise to sunset without control. Valerious the Elder still hadn’t returned, which suggested he was travelling far or spending some time on this business of his.

* * *

Forty-four nights after being trapped, shortly after sunset, Vladislaus heard his brother’s voice.

“ _Father, I beg you tell me you did not do this…_!” A pause followed, in which Vladislaus was interested to think his father was back.

“ _Did you hear me say that I was weaving a fiction_?!” Valerious the Elder’s gravelly voice barked, stoic-sounding. “ _That_ abomination _is my son. One of the House of Valerious’ members has turned his back on God and consorted with the Devil. He has disgraced our entire House in God’s eye by existing, and it is our duty to correct the error we made in creating him_!”

“ _But Father, to place our_ everlasting souls _upon this mission_?!” Vladislaus’ interest increased tenfold. A very long, very interesting pause followed upstairs. Concentrating in the silence, Vladislaus thought he picked up slow footsteps. The silence lingered some time longer before someone spoke again.

“ _Our_ everlasting souls _…_ ” Valerious the Younger said. “ _More valuable than anything else on this Earth. And their fate now depends upon this mission_?” Vladislaus heard a clang of jointed metal on flesh – it didn’t sound harsh enough to cut or break anything, but it still hardly sounded like a light slap.

“This _is what man does every day, and what our House has done since its beginnings_ ,” the Elder’s voice growled. “ _We prove to God we are worthy of his mercy, and that our souls deserve salvation. Or we face eternal damnation and swim in the Lake of Fire forever!_ We _have given the Devil a new vessel upon the Earth which has already claimed many innocent souls. So, my son, I confessed my sin in creating this evil, and I swore in Rome to God himself that our House would enter Heaven only when we saw the monster vanquished! And if the father cannot do this duty… it must pass to those of his House who will follow him_.” A long pause followed.

“ _I do not mean to intrude_ …” murmured a meek-sounding third voice that Vladislaus didn’t know.

“ _The guards will escort you to your chamber_ ,” Valerious the Elder murmured gruffly. In the quiet that followed, Vladislaus glared icily at the ceiling like he could cause it to crumble. He was quite concerned by the way his father had used the word _vanquish_ , wondering if his father and brother meant to destroy him. They hadn’t yet used on him any of the methods that had destroyed his servants. On a level he wouldn’t admit to, Vladislaus feared his father and brother would succeed if they did mean to destroy him, in spite of his helpless state. Dawn seemed to Vladislaus not as painstakingly slow to come as usual, as he thought deeply about his current predicament and his family’s intent.

* * *

Vladislaus awoke to something unpleasant on his skin. Eyes opening, he growled before comprehending his surroundings. He was still impaled, but the coffin was vertically upright. He heard heartbeats. He was in the castle’s art gallery, overlooking the river. Valerious the Elder and Younger stood in front of him, both wearing stoic expressions. Closer was a man Vladislaus had never seen before, looking at him – he was probably barely in his thirtieth year, short in height, with a bulbous nose and beady green eyes. He wore ankle-length white robes and a crucifix around his neck, and his brown hair had a tonsure. A priest. When Vladislaus saw him, the man backed away. Vladislaus heard two more heartbeats behind his prison-coffin – guards, he guessed. The sun was shining on Vladislaus’ face from the western mountaintops – it didn’t burn, but Vladislaus purely _hated_ it on his skin. He wanted to remove it, he would’ve happily obliterated its source if that were possible. The protective rings were gone, but Vladislaus still felt almost as weak. Whenever awake during the day, he’d always felt like every movement took significant effort, like his strength were one man’s and like he could barely extend his mind’s magic powers.

“The sun does not burn him,” the priest-man murmured. He was the other voice Vladislaus had heard the previous night. Turning to the Elder, he said: “Holy water might destroy him.”

“We have a sure way of destroying him,” Valerious the Elder growled matter-of-factly. Vladislaus silently listened, eyes shifting between the three.

“Yes, the potion,” the priest-man said, gesturing at two lid-covered stone beakers, standing on a desk near the window. While the man talked, Vladislaus quickly considered how he might escape, running through several scenarios. Kick at or scratch the nearest man’s neck and hope the guards would get close enough for him to bite and drink, or get his feet outside the coffin and run through the window. “The liquid on the right came from a fallen star, and is blessed by Ariel the archangel. It has been stored by the Church for many years. The man who drinks it will become a great beast with a man’s mind, able to kill many a wicked creature.” Vladislaus multitasked, listening to the man while thinking. “I researched this incident thoroughly before you left Rome, my lord, and I believe the creature here-” He gestured at Vladislaus, but didn’t look. “-is the creature of darkness whose coming was predicted more than four-hundred and fifty years ago. If this is so, he bears the title of son of the Devil. It is clearly stated only a non-worldly wolf will be able to destroy this creature, and after much research, I believe that-” He moved quickly to the table, lifting the right-hand beaker. “-refers to this potion’s power.” Vladislaus’ jaw was locked, the situation now direly serious. He considered trying to force himself off the coffin’s stakes. Eyes shifting, he saw his father momentarily looking at him, face unreadable.

“You said you can banish him,” Valerious the Elder said, looking back at the priest.

“Yes,” the priest said after a moment, looking surprised. He put the beaker down.

“Father, I shall do it,” Valerious the Younger said.

“You will do no such thing as long as I breathe!” the Elder growled dangerously. Then he glared at Vladislaus, who looked down his nose at his father. “You, _monster_ , have disgraced our family in God’s eye and jeopardised its salvation,” Valerious the Elder murmured, gravelly voice low and dark.

“I’ve heard you bartered our family’s souls to amend the wrong,” Vladislaus murmured almost flippantly. His father and brother immediately looked taken aback, having no doubt been unware of his extreme hearing. Vladislaus smiled thinly. “How devout of you, Father.”

“Know this,” the Elder murmured very-darkly, grey eyes glaring hatefully, “you may be allowed to exist as long as I live, betrayed and led astray by my heart, but your reign will not last, if our house must fight you until the Last Judgement!”

“Then I suppose I will simply have to kill you all,” Vladislaus said, again almost-flippantly. Valerious the Elder looked back at the priest.

“This undead is one of those which has no reflection in the mirror,” the priest said, holding up a reflective glass pane – it showed an empty coffin filled with silver spikes. Not surprising to Vladislaus, he’d observed his lack of a reflection in water some time ago. “When this happens, it means to those undead, the mirror is not a reflection at all – it is a doorway.”

“How interesting,” Vladislaus spoke, making the priest wheel around in fright. “Will you say more about this?” He smiled charmingly. Valerious the Elder and the Younger looked wary.

“It is of no concern to you, demon!” the priest spat, though he trembled in fright. He turned to Vladislaus’ father and brother. “I can cast a spell to banish him through such a mirror-” Vladislaus’ eyes narrowed in new interest, for he’d believed sorcery was entirely an affront to God. “-and bar the place of his exile so he will not escape through mirrors.”

“You will do it,” Valerious the Elder said without hesitation. Valerious the Younger, nearest the coffin, had his eyes on the other two men. Vladislaus watched, waiting. Then he lashed out an arm, grabbing his brother’s neck and pulling him close. He heard the guards rush forward, while the priest and the Elder turned. Valerious the Younger grabbed Vladislaus’ wrist, but Vladislaus increased the pressure threateningly, making his brother open his mouth desperately for air.

“Release me,” Vladislaus growled at his father. “Or watch your last heir die.” He meant it – even without his strength, he knew how to snap a neck one-handed. Suddenly, a familiar burning made Vladislaus scream. His brother quickly tore free. The source was behind Vladislaus – he realised one of the guards was wielding a cross. The effect subsided a moment later.

“I suggest we hurry,” the priest said urgently. Valerious the Elder nodded. As Vladislaus watched, lips a tight line with the fury building inside him, the priest, his father and his brother marched towards the gallery exit, stopping at a bare part of the wall. Picking up a large basin on the floor, the priest threw its contents on the wall inside an archway – a bronze-coloured liquid, which stuck and rolled down the wall very slowly. He pulled his robes’ sleeves back, then raised his hands.

“ _Exaudi preces nostras, Domine, quia abominationem et servus est plaga ambulat in nobis_ …” The chanting lasted three minutes. Whenever Vladislaus tried to slide off the stakes, or even when he growled in fury, either guard raised a cross which burned him. When a guard raised his cross too long and it caught fire, he replaced it with another one of several crosses nearby.

“ _Et hoc cardine ostium aperire ita ut eiciant de cladibus tuis_!” the priest finished. As Vladislaus watched and listened, the liquid produced a crackling sound and seemed to thin, looking like a frozen sheet. What liquid hadn’t slid to the floor began spreading outward, filling the area inside the archway. Then the bronze colour faded and the liquid became reflectively clear – there was now a glass mirror filling part of the wall.

“It is done,” the priest said.

“Bring him,” Valerious the Elder said commandingly. Vladislaus growled as the guards hoisted his coffin off the floor and carried it, horizontal, above their heads to the mirror. Stopping, they pressed the coffin’s bottom to the glass. The glass area the coffin touched turned pale, cracks and shapes like shifting and melting ice spreading out. The coffin bottom slid through the patch, then Vladislaus’ feet, then his lower-legs. Vladislaus turned his head, one eye peeking above the coffin’s edge at Valerious the Elder.

“ _This is not over_!” he growled fiercely. The Elder said nothing, scarred face dark. The line of the ice-glass enveloping Vladislaus passed over his head, and his father disappeared, replaced by a twilight-blue place.

The coffin fell six feet. Growling, Vladislaus gripped the edges and very-slowly began sliding off the stakes. It took nearly a minute to slide free, during which time Vladislaus took in more of his surroundings. It was cold, comfortingly for him; winds were howling, carrying snow, which also coated the ground. Ahead of him was the largest manmade structure Vladislaus had ever seen – it was as tall as a mountain, piercing several layers of clouds. Sliding fully off the stakes, Vladislaus took a moment to stand. He looked behind him, and saw a glass panel set in a giant obelisk, surrounded by carvings. Looking in front, Vladislaus saw the giant building consisted of three towers – he craned his head up and up to see the towers’ tops. Standing atop a rocky base, the fortress looked as though it had been crafted by carving out an entire mountain. Ahead of Vladislaus was an entrance, the fortress’s architecture looking extremely elaborate. Small dead trees lined the snowy path on either side, curving branches pointing over it and forming an arch. Two gigantic pillars supporting nothing stood past those. Beyond the mountain-fortress, vast mountains formed a barrier on all sides. Theirs and the fortress’s bases stretched down and down below the ledge Vladislaus was on, a gorge encircling the mountain-fortress. The gorge went so far down that when Vladislaus looked over the ledge, even he couldn’t see any bottom.

Hearing the same unnatural sound from when he’d passed through the mirror, Vladislaus looked back at the obelisk. Shapes were forming near the mirror-pane’s bottom, like finger-drawings in frost. He immediately advanced back to the obelisk, watching two lidded beakers slide out where the outlines had been. Standing by them, Vladislaus looked back at the mirror. He slowly raised a hand and pressed it to the glass – it didn’t slide in, nor did the glass react in any way. Vladislaus turned from the obelisk with a snarl, teeth grit and fury boiling. He walked halfway to the fortress’s entrance, before his anger subsided and he looked back. Approaching the beakers, he crouched and lifted the left-hand beaker’s lid. Inside was a liquid that looked like reflective silver, but rippled like water when Vladislaus blew air on it. Re-placing the lid and lifting the other beaker’s, Vladislaus saw clear liquid, like water but thicker. He re-placed the lid, eyes slightly narrowed.

* * *

Weeks passed, and Vladislaus was not enjoying his prison as much as he could have under other circumstances. The icy conditions and the fact sunlight seldom breached the place were perfect for him. Inside the fortress, he’d discovered a chamber containing a sarcophagus, which encased him in ice when he slept and thawed at sunset. Vladislaus had spent most of his waking time exploring the fortress’s vast facilities. The halls’ carvings told some stories – a vertical series of carvings on a pillar Vladislaus had examined showed: a stick-figure among mountains kneeling before a devil; the fortress sprouting between the mountains with the stick figure in front of it, the legless devil-figure forming a snakelike ring around this image; the stick-figure inside the fortress, with other figures outside pointing spears at it, while the devil-figure lurked below all the figures, a parchment in hand; and the devil-figure, now sporting wings, inside the fortress, ripping a second stick-figure out of the first.

Still, Vladislaus hadn’t drunk since the night he’d been trapped. Shortly after he’d gotten free of the stake-coffin, he’d nearly fully recovered, though his physical strength had seemed less. But after a month at the fortress, the effects had worsened – Vladislaus’ strength was continuing to wane, moving his body seemed to be taking more effort, reaching his remaining fiends’ minds continuously became harder, and he’d observed he took longer to heal when he wounded his body. Being already dead, Vladislaus didn’t know what would happen if he didn’t drink blood, but he could guess. He’d started feeling in need of rest before sunrise and awakening after sunset, the effect worsening as time went on – Vladislaus wondered if he would eventually enter a permanent rest if he didn’t drink blood. Looking for his creatures’ minds, Vladislaus had seen many still existed, having scattered from Vaseria. He’d called them to locate his prison shortly after arriving at the fortress – so far, they hadn’t found him, and Vladislaus hadn’t been able to tell where he was by the surrounding mountains.

Six weeks after his arrival, Vladislaus was on the thirty-foot wide square roof of one of the towers, slowly pacing along its edges. His cap was gone, though he’d tied part of his long hair into a knot, hands clasped behind his back, traveller’s cape billowing in the winds. He was looking out at the mountains – mostly half-silhouetted since the storm was slightly thicker tonight – hoping to see something he hadn’t before.

“I’d hoped for slightly better than this.” Turning, Vladislaus saw the Devil standing across the roof from him, long coat and ponytail seemingly untouched by the wind. His yellow eyes stood out piercingly, both hands resting on his cane’s skull-head. “I didn’t name you the son of the Devil so you and all your power could be banished.” The Devil sounded disappointed, and Vladislaus detected the slightest dark undertone, which made him slightly wary. The Devil slowly stalked forwards, cane clunking.

“A sorcerer-priest banished me here,” Vladislaus said, turning his body to wholly face the Devil.

“And before that?” the Devil murmured, stopping seven feet from Vladislaus. When Vladislaus didn’t immediately reply, he growled very-darkly: “What. Happened. _Before that_?” Eyes narrowed, Vladislaus considered and carefully reconsidered his answer.

“My family trapped me,” he murmured. His tone at the end turned slightly-resentful, blue eyes turning slightly dark.

“Yes. They _defeated_ you.” The Devil’s lips curled from his white teeth, yellow eyes narrowed, emphasising the word _defeated_ like it were the most disgraceful thing in the world. He took half a step closer to Vladislaus, vain face dark. Fiery-orange veins glowed on his arms, the glow spreading past his elbows, revealing more blood vessels. It spread past the Devil’s shoulders into his chest, black doublet glowing like a gateway into Hell. Horrible tearing sounds and wailing emerged from his torso. “For the last son of the Devil, that didn’t end well,” the Devil murmured, tone as black as the world’s darkest pit. “He burns hotter than most in Hell to this day.” Vladislaus’ face was unreadably calm, not wanting to show open fear. “This did not happen entirely because of powerlessness.” The Devil turned and began striding away from Vladislaus. “You don’t seem to have used one of your powers yet.” Vladislaus’ eyes widened slightly in interest, tracking on the Devil. He silently thought, trying to work out what this power was – he suspected the Devil might not want him to ask, and he wasn’t inclined to push that barrier. The Devil halted, back to Vladislaus.

“This particular power will free you from this place,” the Devil said without turning around, decrepit and dark voice calm. Turning, Vladislaus slowly stalked sideways to him along the roof’s edge, traveller’s cloak billowing. His blue eyes were constantly shifting or narrowing slightly, lips slightly parted. He stopped at the roof’s edge, eyebrows creased in an almost anxious-looking expression. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed among the clouds, though it barely affected Vladislaus’ vision. The distant but all-encircling mountains lay sprawled out before Vladislaus, the rumbling twilight-clouds above the bottomless gorge below. Vladislaus reached the answer in three seconds.

 _Flight_. But how was he to use this power? Not looking back at the Devil, Vladislaus’ eyes narrowed and his lower-lip slightly curled away from his teeth. Another lightning-flash illuminated his face. Vladislaus quickly dismissed the thought flight might come naturally if he fell from this roof – he’d already discovered he could walk on walls and ceilings, and had dropped from the halls’ ceilings twice. Eyes narrowed and brows lowered, he slowly raised his right hand, holding it in front of his face. He closed his fingers into a fist like he were gripping something, mouth becoming a thin line. Perhaps it was like using a muscle – his mouth transforming was similar. He relaxed and flexed his shoulder blades, expecting wings to emerge like how flexing one finger flexed the others on the same hand – nothing. Reconsidering, Vladislaus spread his hands out from his body slightly, palms facing the earth, and tried to imagine he was pushing himself off the ground without touching it. Again, nothing happened. Growing slightly frustrated as nothing he thought seemed to work, Vladislaus’ face grew slightly dark. He tried visualising his muscles pushing and pulling him away from the ground, constantly working like he were climbing a training apparatus.

He was aware he’d started transforming just before he grew in height. Clothes becoming part of his skin and the rooftop becoming further from his eyeline, Vladislaus grinned. Then he released an inhuman cry as everything under his skin shifted, nearly making him double over. His arms enlarged, developing obvious muscles, while his nails became black talons. His torso rippled and shifted, gaining a thicker ribcage, new muscles popping into being. His eyes became beady above his already-changed mouth, forehead swelling. Within a few seconds, Vladislaus’ muscles stopped shifting. Giant leathery wings spreading out from his torso. Craning his head, Vladislaus screeched to the sky horribly, taloned hands raised, large mouth wide open. Lightning flashed in the sky again, and the wind started bringing rain. Finishing his screech, Vladislaus examined his grey-skinned arms and flesh-coloured wings, lips forming a grin around his oversized gums and stake-like teeth. Thrusting the wings, Vladislaus flew backwards with his back facing the rooftop, then fluidly twisted his body in the air so his chest faced down. Flying from the tower, flight came like Vladislaus had always been able to fly, beating his wings quickly becoming a task his waking mind hardly regarded. The winds and air currents barely seemed to affect him if he didn’t ride them. Flying freely between the tall towers, Vladislaus screeched again, the sound carrying so it would’ve been audible a mile away. The clouds turned white as lightning flashed. Vladislaus circled inside the fortress’s towers, flying by the second short tower, then out and around the largest tower’s side which faced away from the others. Again, lightning flashed when Vladislaus screeched, forking through the clouds, and thunder clapped. Approaching the tower he’d taken off from, Vladislaus was a vast-seeming, bat-like silhouette against the stormy backdrop. Within five seconds, he was a monstrous man-bat getting close, rearing his lower-body forward and slowing his incredible speed. Vladislaus landed on two feet in the roof’s centre. Shrinking his muscles, Vladislaus’ wings folded, his height decreased, clothes reappearing. The rain was beating down much harder, but the human-looking Vladislaus was unbothered even as it cascaded down his face, dripping on his nose and brows and making strands of his dark hair stick to his skin. Standing near the roof’s edge, the Devil likewise seemed unaffected.

“I take it you are pleased with your new form?” the Devil murmured, voice clear over the winds and thunder, tone suggesting he didn’t need an answer. He was smiling quite-darkly. Vladislaus turned his head, also smiling darkly. Behind him, lightning forked above the mountains and thunder boomed.

“It is greatly appreciated, and I suspect, I shall enjoy it _thoroughly in the future_ ,” Vladislaus murmured, voice growling near the end, as he slowly walked forward. The Devil smiled slowly, maliciously.

“I should hope so, my son,” the Devil said. “And now, let us discuss important business matters.”

“Such as?” Vladislaus murmured carefully, mouth becoming a straight line and eyes narrowing.

“Such as those two potions sent to this place with you,” the Devil said, turning and walking around the rooftop’s edge, cruel yellow eyes remaining on Vladislaus.

“The men who banished me said one potion would turn a man into a beast of God,” Vladislaus said, eyes tracking the Devil, shifting his front so it always faced the blood-coated figure.

“It will,” the Devil said. “Valerious the Elder was a _blind fool_ to throw them into this place, hoping you might destroy yourself. You have not only the one weapon in this world that can destroy you-” The Devil spun, pacing back towards Vladislaus, grinning near-ferally. “-you have a _very valuable tool_.” The Devil stopped, looking Vladislaus in the eye. Vladislaus’ face had darkened slightly. “I know that you have already found the fortress’s library. You can learn much about the dark arts from its texts. And the weapon in question, like all good things with time and craft, can be _broken_.” Vladislaus paused, imagining, then an elated grin spread on his face. He liked that idea. A Noble Beast of God, its powers corrupted and twisted to serve evil? How much damage could Vladislaus have such a thing inflict?

After a moment indulging, Vladislaus calmly asked, smile gone; “What is the other potion?”

“The opposite of the Noble Beast; a twin without which, the other potion cannot serve good well,” the Devil said. He gave Vladislaus a look that said he expected him to give the answer himself. Swivelling away from the Devil, Vladislaus’ blue eyes shifted as he thought deeply, brows furrowed in a dark expression which looked near-anxious. _A twin, the opposite, without which the Noble Beast cannot serve good well_ … The sorcerer-priest had said the silver potion turned men into beasts with men’s minds. It granted them the power to kill nearly anything demonic, and it was a tool for good.

“It removes the first potion’s spell, before the transformed man is tempted by power,” Vladislaus said.

“You are correct,” the Devil said. “But there are other details relating to those potions you should know, if you do not wish to be destroyed by unexpected surprises.”

“I am listening,” Vladislaus said calmly, blue eyes narrowed carefully as he turned on his heel to face the Devil. Lightning flashed and thunder clapped momentarily.

“Do you know where that friend of yours who killed you came from?” the Devil murmured almost-patronisingly. “Or why he has nightmares of battles hundreds of years passed?” Vladislaus’ eyes widened a little.

“I do not, but I would be very interested to know,” Vladislaus murmured. The Devil’s lips peeled back from his teeth manically.

“He is _His_ -” The Devil pointed upwards. “-Left Hand. The angel Gabriel incarnate.” Vladislaus’ lips were parted for a moment, then closed, though his eyes remained almost-madly wide. His mind went over Gabriel’s dreams, his memory loss and his origin in Rome.

“ _How_?” Vladislaus growled hoarsely, voice cutting the roaring wind and rainfall.

“He has been on the Earth for more than fourteen-hundred years,” the Devil murmured, not smiling at all. “It is mostly because of him that the forces of darkness never regained their foothold in this world. But _you_ , my son…” He raised a hand holding the cane-skull, pointing a long-nailed finger. “…with all of your powers, can turn the tide in our favour once more.” Vladislaus broke eye contact with the Devil. Imagining himself and his fiend minions bringing darkness and terror to the land, Vladislaus found great delight, seeing himself securing more power than ever he had when he’d served God. A wide grin slowly spread on his face. Slowly, he tilted his head skyward – a loud, dark, melodious laugh escaped him while rain poured and lightning flashed, his arms slowly spreading. The Devil smiled wickedly. When he’d finished laughing, Vladislaus looked at the Devil’s face, his own face quickly turning stone-cold and serious.

“There will come a time, very soon, when all of Eastern Europe will know my creatures’ teeth and blackness, tearing its men, women and children apart,” Vladislaus said, husky voice dark. “The Son of the Dragon shall rule the land!” he practically snarled.

“That is _delightful_ ,” the Devil murmured. “But about your friend-” The Devil pointed a finger again. “-I have foreseen, my son, that there will come a time in the neverending years now laid ahead of you, in which you and Gabriel shall meet once more.” Vladislaus’ mouth’s corners curved slightly downwards, wide eyes intent. “And when you do, though the precise outcome is unknown to me – the scales of good and evil will tip, in one’s favour or the other’s. When that happens, one of you shall be destroyed.” Vladislaus’ eyes remained wide, quickly processing this new knowledge. He first considered the possibilities about who would be the destroyed one. The Devil had told Vladislaus he could only be destroyed the Noble Beast, and he now possessed the potion. There was the possibility someone else had imbibed it before his father had received it, but if the Noble Beast’s power was alluring enough to warrant a cure being paired with it, Vladislaus suspected he wouldn’t have much trouble turning such a being to his side. Overall, the odds were completely in his favour. He looked back at the Devil.

“Truly only the Noble Beast’s power can destroy me?” Vladislaus asked, eyes dark while the wind howled loudly.

“Indeed,” the Devil murmured, face unreadable. Vladislaus slowly spun on his heel and stalked away through the rain, eyes wide.

“Then it would seem, there is truly no-one,” Vladislaus said, “and _nothing_ … that _can kill me_.” He looked back at the Devil, grinning wickedly. The Devil said nothing, simply smiling slyly, white teeth showing. Lightning flashed twice, and in the blink of an eye the Devil vanished. Vladislaus looked at where the Devil had been, blue eyes slightly-lidded, smiling face calm and cool. Turning, he looked out at the mountains, smile pleasant. He was eager to know how much more delightful terrorising his prey would be when he could fly, and after so long trapped, Vladislaus was eager to traverse the fortress’s natural barrier; relish in how the gorge and mountains could no longer prevent him. Correctly commanding his muscles, Vladislaus transformed, slightly faster than last time. Releasing a triumphant screech, he leapt from the roof with a mighty spring of his ankles, wings catching the air and flapping.

Flying through thick, twilight-blue rainclouds, the grotesque bat-shape’s outline was occasionally highlighted by a lightning-flash, though the storm didn’t threaten the creature – he could feel the storm bending and twisting to his will. Vladislaus – or the son of the Devil, Dracula – flew with immense-seeming speed but never slowed or tired, such weaknesses being for the living. Within twenty seconds, the fortress was completely obscured behind him by the clouds. In another ten seconds, snow-dappled rocky peaks were looming through the clouds below and ahead of Dracula, then slowly rolling away behind him. He wholly intended to find Vaseria, whether he was still in the Eastern Carpathians or across the world from Transylvania. He looked forward to seeing the villagers’ staring, mindless terror when he swooped on them in his new form, and he had unfinished business with his former-family. He wholly meant to uphold his declaration he would bring all of Eastern Europe to heel. He would see his minions spread far and wide, while those that defied him would bend or forever perish. Vladislaus Valerious was gone, now he was Dracula, a scourge upon the Earth. He would secure evil’s grip in this part of the world again, and most importantly, he would be master of all the dark things that roamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like my take on Dracula’s backstory. In the film, I thought there was probably something more by how Dracula reacted when he saw Van Helsing; likewise with his ‘This cannot be!’ moment – hence the prophecy in this chapter. :) :) I also hope you like my take on the werewolf cure’s origin – I’m a bit of a werewolf fan and I think that came across with the potions in this chapter. I’d also like to know what you think of my take that the curse is all Valerious the Elder’s fault.


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